


With Cat-Like Tread (And Shotgun in Hand)

by Addleton



Series: Your Yellow Stripe Has Always Tempted Me [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Humor, M/M, Multi, Musicals, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, sargington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addleton/pseuds/Addleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Federal Army of Chorus, in conjunction with Light Red Danish Productions, would like to proudly present a modernized rendition of the classic English opera “The Pirates of Penzance” as adapted by Franklin Donut, choreographed by Sarge, and directed by Agent Washington. We would like to take this moment to also thank General Doyle for his generous patronage, without which this production would not have been possible.</p>
<p> <b>Updates irregularly because work is evil.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donut just came in and took over this entire fic. Like, there’s Sargington going on, but it’s gotten pushed to the background because Donut is like ultra-strength epoxy when it comes to bonding with other people, and so now this is, like, Frosted Sargington.
> 
> God help us.

Agent Washington had not had a good night. Not that any nights in recent memory had been “good”, but the last night had been less good than usual. In other words: terrible.

It also happened to be the latest in a week-long trend of terrible nights.

The last thing he needed was a certain perpetually-perky Private invading his personal space first-thing in the morning, so of course, that was exactly what he got.

“Good morning, Wash!” Donut chirped, stretching, like a cat, and nope. Wash was not going any further with the cat comparisons. Not with the gunshot and shattering of a windshield echoing in his ears every time he blinked.

Instead, Wash sighed and said, “Hello, Donut.”

“Oh wow.” Donut stopped stretching in favor of peering closer at Wash. “You sound terrible.”

Wash shrugged and added another spoonful of sugar to his coffee. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“That’s awful!” Donut wailed, carefully-manicured hands coming up to cover his mouth in abject horror. “Getting your proper beauty rest is _so_ important. Oh, I know! I have some aromatherapy pillow sprays you could use. The lavender and chamomile one is my go-to for when I need to get wiped out as soon as I hit the bed!”

Wash paused in his stirring a moment before deciding that it was too early in the day to question Donut’s diction. Instead, he said, “I don’t think that will help.”

“Oh, is it the mattress? The standard issue ones are always so hard on my hips, but Doc set me up with a lifetime supply of these _amazing_ inflatables. They’re a bit big, but it’s fun to squeeze in and get squeezed every now and then.”

The spoon halted in Wash’s mug. Forget _questioning_ the Donutisms, it was way too early in the day to be hearing _any_ , much less _that many_. Wash pinched the bridge of his nose as he focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth and not on remembering the way a light-red body had just _dropped_ —

“Wash?”

—just because he was in the way, an oblivious annoyance, just like now, and no, Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going down that train of thought this early in the day. He had soldiers to train, troop assignments to look over—

“Wash!”

—planning meetings to attend, and rescue efforts to oversee. There was work to be done, and he had no time to spend feeling guilty about—

“WASH!”

The former Freelance jumped, the abruptness of the motion sending some of his coffee spilling over the lip of his mug and onto the table. It was then that he noticed that Donut was right in his face, gentle hands on both of Wash’s shoulders.

“Wash. Talk to me. On a scale of one to Gretchen Weiners, how are you feeling?”

“Cady Heron,” Wash replied before his filter could kick in and mentally kicked himself for the dorkiness of the reply, and then mentally kicked himself again for zoning out before that. But before he could dig any further down into the pit of self-aggrandizement, he felt soft hands cupping his face.

“There, there.” Donut patted Wash’s cheeks and gave him an encouraging smile. “I know your past is a touchy topic, but if you ever want to talk about it, I have tubs of ice cream and plenty of romcoms at the ready!” Donut gasped, glanced around the room, and leaned in closer to whisper, breathless with excitement, “Do you like musicals?”

“...What?”

“Oh...” The look of disappointment on Donut’s face was like a physical blow to Wash’s gut, and the younger man slowly pulled away. “Never mind... I just thought...”

“Wait, Donut.” Why was he grabbing Donut’s arm? “I like musicals.” Well, _he did_. “I used to watch them with my sisters all the time.” Wait, why was he sharing _that?_ “Your question just surprised me.” Because _who randomly asks people if they like musicals?_

“Really?” Donut’s grin was bright enough to power the entire planet for the next millennium, and the knot in Wash’s gut eased a little. “Oh. Em. Gee! Really?”

“Um.” Wash couldn’t shake the feeling that revealing his fondness for musicals was close to the most dangerous thing he had ever done. “Yes?”

Donut squeed—straight-up _squeed_ —and Wash tried not to pay attention to the number of heads that turned towards the sound just in time to see Donut grab Wash in a very enthusiastic hug, one which Wash’s coffee sadly did not survive.

“Welcome to the Musical Lovers Club, Wash!” the light-red soldier announced while pinning a badge onto the collar of Wash’s undersuit. Wash would have to get a closer look at it later. “Meetings are every Tuesday at 7 pm at Blue Base, but since there’s no Blue Base here and we’re bunking together, we’ll just have meetings in our quarters! Oh, I’m so excited! It’s been so long since our last meeting. I was beginning to worry that the Club was done-for since most of the members are missing.”

There were other members? “Who are the other members?”

“Well, there’s me, of course. I’m the President, and then there’s Caboose as VP and Doc as Treasurer! Sheila used to be a member. Same with Tex. Church was on probation. I’m pretty sure he only came because of Tex,” Donut’s voice dropped conspiratorially on the last sentence before resuming his regular, cheerful volume. “Lopez is an honorary member since he’s The Projector! That’s his official title, you know, and the Club would be completely lost without him!”

“That’s a lot of members.”

Donut sighs. “On paper, yes, but right now, there’s only the two of us and Lopez. But that’s alright! So long as there are at least two of us, we can hold official club meetings! And the first order of business is to appoint a Secretary to keep track of what goes on during club meetings! We’ve been needing one for a while, ever since Sheila left, so welcome aboard, Secretary Washington!”

“What?!”

“I understand it’s a lot of responsibility, being Secretary, but I know you’re a very responsible person and won’t let the Club down!”

“But I don’t know how to be a secretary!” Wash mentally kicked himself. Again. Because that was not the actual problem.

“Oh, that’s okay, Wash! I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Sheila had a very simple system, and I still have all of the past meeting minutes. I’ll send them to you in a quickie!”

...Yes. It was _definitely_ too early in the morning for any more Donutisms. “Thank you, Donut. I need to go train now.”

“Not at all, Wash! Now, don’t forget! Every Tuesday at 7 pm, and don’t be afraid to ask any questions about the Secretary thing. I’d be more than happy to lend you a hand with that!”

“I have to go.” Wash went to lever himself up off the bench and placed his hands in the puddle of spilled coffee. He cursed under his breath, feeling a pang of sympathy for whoever was in charge of cleaning the mess hall.

Donut handed Wash a napkin before dropping a pile more onto the spill. “Don’t worry about that, Wash. I’ve got you covered.”

“Thanks, Donut,” Wash said, and, to his surprise, he meant it.

Donut wrinkled his nose at the consistency of the liquid. “After you wipe off, don’t forget to wash your hands or they’ll be sticky.”

Any gratitude Wash fostered promptly evaporated in the face of Donut’s unfortunate phrasing. “...I will,” Washington said before making a tactically-speedy exit to the innuendo-free zone of the training halls, his helmet securely back in place over his head, a small badge digging into his collarbone.

* * *

 

Doctor Grey had intercepted Agent Washington on the way to a meeting with General Doyle, demanding to know what he thought he was doing out of bed so shortly after a major surgery. After realizing that she had forgotten to inform Washington that he was on medical leave, Doctor Grey took pains to establish the facts that strenuous and stressful activities would result in further damage to his pretty head, that medical leave was mandatory, that she knew he slept poorly to begin with, that she had a large range of sedatives she promised to employ if he rendered such necessary, that she could see to it that he remained on medical leave indefinitely if _she_ deemed it necessary, and that the infirmary had plenty of room to house him for however long he remained on medical leave. She then told him he was on strict bed rest for the next three days and sent him back to his quarters while she darted off to explain the situation to General Doyle and scold _him_ for disregarding proper medical protocols; even if it was a time of war, neglecting the health of those under his command was simply unacceptable.

Wash had been too tired to argue, which was why he was on his way to bed before it was even 1100, sorely missing his spilled cup of coffee as he focused on not tripping on air. By the time he got back to the room he shared with the three Reds, standing straight was more of a challenge than he wanted to admit.

The room was completely empty for once, Lopez absent from his chosen corner, and Wash staggered to his bunk, not even bothering to remove his armor.

He was out the moment his body hit the mattress, the exhaustion finally catching up and ensuring that he saw nothing during sleep.

* * *

 

He woke up to someone removing his helmet.

Years of training took over, and in a flash, Wash had his assailant pinned on the bed, a knife pressed firmly against their throat.

“Woah, there, son!” said a familiar voice.

“...Sarge?”

Sarge huffed as Wash jerked away. “You need to get your freaky Freelancer murder urges under control. Indiscriminate murder is only acceptable when you have enemies around. Or Grif.”

Wash rubbed his eyes with a tired sigh. “What are you doing here, Sarge?”

“I was checking to make sure you hadn’t keeled over and died on us.” The fully-armored man sat up, rubbing at his throat. “Donut has been fretting all over the place about how you looked like a dead man walking this morning, ever since the little lady Doctor informed us that you were officially on sick leave and strict bed rest for the next few days.”

“I’m fine, Sarge.”

Sarge snorted. “I tried waking you up earlier, but you didn’t so much as twitch, even after I started decorating your visor with Donut’s fancy face paints.”

“WHAT?!” Wash lunged for his helmet and looked; his visor was a multicolor scrawl of robots and lasers locked in an epic space battle with a side of profanity. “Saaarge!”

“Don’t be such a baby, Washington. Just wash it off.”

Wash heard a quiet clink when he put his hand down on the bed to properly glare at Sarge. A quick glance at the source of the sound revealed small pots of gel eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lip gloss. With growing irritation fed by childhood memories of makeup mishaps, he held a pot up in front of Sarge’s visor and growled, “This stuff is _waterproof_.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to apply some good, old-fashioned elbow grease.”

Wash just stared at his Red counterpart. He was so done. So, so done with everything. He put the eyeliner down, flopped back onto the mattress, and rolled over onto his side. “I’m going back to sleep. Goodnight.”

“You’ll wrench your neck sleeping in your armor like that.”

The rush of adrenaline was wearing off and Wash felt the heavy creep of exhaustion weigh down once more. “I don’t care.”

Sarge sighed and stood up, muffled clacks breaking the silence as he collected little jars off the bed and dropped them into Donut’s cosmetics bag. Wash expected to hear heavy footsteps and the door next; he was not expecting Sarge’s hands on his shoulder, or the quiet sounds of armor unlatching.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving the rest of us from a patented pastry deflation.”

“By undressing me.” Wash glanced over his shoulder at Sarge. “You haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet.”

Sarge shoved Wash onto his stomach in reply. “It’s only your armor! You’ve been spending too much time with that sleazy excuse for Alien Virgin Mary.” The red-armored soldier began removing Wash’s backplate.

“Who?” Wash wriggled into a more comfortable position on his stomach while he tried to figure out just who Sarge was referring to. “Tucker?”

Sarge snorted, backplate already off and set to the side. “Who _else_ could it possibly be? He goes off on a pilgrimage, gets knocked up by a _mysterious_ force, and gives birth to Alien Jesus! Only instead of the Angel Gabriel announcing the birth, we got a trash-talking bowling ball named Andy. It’s goddamn blasphemy is what it is!”

“I… what?” Wash wasn’t sure which was more disorienting: Sarge’s rambling or how quickly the man was stripping his armor.

“Let’s not be completely oblivious here: if Junior is Alien Jesus, that makes Tucker the Virgin Mary and Crunchbite the Holy Spirit. Toss in the Prophecy as God and you’ve got the Blasphemous Alien Trinity right there!”

“Do I want to know who the Wise Men are?” Wash rolled onto his back when Sarge nudged his shoulder.

“Why, it’s incredibly obvious!” Sarge divested Wash’s arm of all titanium in record time; the more worked up the Red leader got, the faster the armor pile grew. “Church gave Junior shelter! Caboose gave him blood! Doc gave him knowledge of all the colors! Right before he went and ruined it all by teaching the kid not to judge people by them.” The Red soldier muttered something that might have been, “Once a Blue, always a Blue.”

Wash ignored the latter part in favor of putting on his Most Innocent face. “Then Red Team were the shepherds?”

Sarge took his helmet off just to inflict the full force of his glare upon Washington. “No. For starters, Donut is obviously Joseph in this scenario.”

“...What?”

Sarge rolled his eyes. “He ran off into the desert with Tucker to protect Alien Jesus, spent months living in a hole in the ground with them, and then left the hellhole the first chance he got!”

Wash squinted at Sarge. “You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about these parallels.”

Sarge snorted and pulled off the last piece of armor. “Only because no one else spends any time thinking about anything worthwhile.”

Wash rolled onto his side to face Sarge. “And how were any of those parallels worthwhile?”

“They weren’t,” Sarge said, his expression deadpan. “That was the point. No one else spends any time thinking of anything worthwhile, so thinking of worthwhile things is a complete waste of time and energy! Time and energy that can be better spent contemplating robots and lasers! And explosions! And the occasional over-extended metaphor.”

“And pastry deflations?”

“Oh no. Those are serious. A worried Donut is a force to be feared! He will smother you with sweet kindness and saccharine consideration until you become a lifelong diabetic! And not the dietary kind.”

“And why would Donut be worried about me?” Wash asked, a bit more bitterly than he had intended.

Sarge looked at Wash like he was stupid. “He’s a good kid.”

It couldn’t be that simple. Wash rolled over onto his stomach to think.

“He doesn’t know I shot him, does he?”

Sarge sighed and paused in stacking Wash’s armor. “He might.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“As far as I know, no one’s _told_ him you were the one who pulled the trigger. But Donut’s not stupid, and your dramatic change of armor color _is_ hard to miss. Especially for someone as color-oriented as Princess Peach.”

Wash let that observation sink in for a moment, the muted clatter of armor being stacked keeping the silence comfortable. “If he knows,” Wash said at length, feeling more tired than he had that morning, “then why hasn’t he brought it up yet?”

“Because—and I just said this, so pay attention this time because I don’t like going around repeating myself—he’s a good kid. He’s probably already forgiven you.” There was a slight, but meaningful pause. “And even if he hasn't, he’ll probably forgive you as soon as you talk to him about it.”

Wash muttered into his pillow, “I don’t want to talk about it. At all. With anyone.”

“Well, tough luck! You’re going to have to eat that can of worms. Ain’t no way to avoid talking about mushy feelings things with Mister Cuddly-Wuddly around! You’ve just got to get it out of the way as fast and close to the event as possible, like lopping off a limb after a zombie bite!”

Wash huffed into his pillow. “Are your pep talks always so inspiring?”

Sarge just muttered to himself about ingrates, cocky bastards, and Blues in general as he continued to stack armor in neat piles at the foot of the mattress.

Wash had almost drifted back to sleep when he felt an insistent nudging against his ribs. He groaned and turned his head to look, his sleep-clouded eyes only making out a red blur against a backdrop of militant gray. “What now?”

“You’re in my bunk.”

“...Huh?” was his very articulate response.

Sarge grumbled a bit before explaining. “I called dibs.”

“But you sleep on the top.”

“Yes.”

Wash blinked, tried to focus his eyes, failed. “But I’ve been sleeping here.”

“Since when?”

“Since we got here.”

Sarge spluttered and groused about sneaky Blues lurking under beds like childhood monsters.

Wash just blinked sleepily at the red blur and said, “You can’t just call dibs on an entire bunk.”

“Dibs on this here entire bunk. There. I just did, and the International Dibs Protocol states—”

Wash buried his face in his pillow and said, “I don’t care.” It probably came out more “ahdunkay”, but Sarge clearly understood the message.

“This is an outrage! Borderline infractionism! A near violation of sacred protocol!”

“I’m not moving,” Wash mumbled, not even Sarge’s loud blustering able to keep his eyes from sliding shut. His eyes flew open an instant later as a pair of arms shoved themselves under his shoulders and hips, flipped him onto his back, and lifted him off the bed, blankets and all, as armor clattered to the floor. Wash was too surprised to do more than clutch his pillow to his face, and then he was being gently deposited onto a different mattress. A moment later, Sarge pulled the pillow away and tucked it behind Wash’s head before proceeding to tuck the rest of the former Freelancer into bed.

“What?!” Wash managed to finally choke out.

Sarge took off a gauntlet. “Can it, you damned baby Blue.”

“But! Why are you—?” Wash’s question was cut off when Sarge placed his hand just below Wash’s hairline.

“Have to check for a fever,” the Red leader replied as if Wash were stupid for not realizing the obvious. And maybe he was, but Wash still glared at Sarge until his eyes drifted shut, the lids gluing themselves together almost upon contact.

He fell asleep to a cool, calloused hand resting on his forehead.

* * *

 

When Wash woke up later that night, Donut and Sarge were sleeping, the former muttering about tiramisu while the latter snored like a freighter. Lopez sat in his usual corner, a slight turn of his visor the only sign he had noticed Wash.

The only thing out of place was the neat stack of armor at the foot of an empty mattress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Day Two of mandatory bed rest, and Agent Washington is _really bad_ at staying in bed.
> 
> Hint: Hover over Lopez's dialogue for the intended translation!

Day Two of mandatory bed rest found Wash in the mess at three in the morning. He had been unable to go back to sleep due to a combination of Donut being, well, _Donut_ and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Considering the only thing he’d eaten yesterday had been a light breakfast of fruit and yogurt, Wash was unsurprised to find that he felt hungry enough to out-eat Caboose.

The sharp pang in his chest put a quick end to his appetite.

He went to the mess hall anyway, knowing that if he didn’t get food now, the rest of his day would be miserable. Well, _more_ miserable than it was due to be with him stuck in bed with nothing to do. For the entire day.

The a la carte options at 3 am were as sparse as expected. Wash walked away with a decent trio of apples, one very questionable banana, and a bottle of water. He would have liked coffee, but the pot was long-empty and he didn’t want to chance an encounter with Doctor Grey; she had been very adamant that bed rest meant staying in bed and not leaving it except for bathroom breaks. She would not be happy to find him wandering around the base before even the early risers were up.

Wash padded back to the barracks, encountering no one along the way. He thought he was in the clear until the door to their quarters whispered open to reveal a furious Sarge sporting a spectacular case of bedhead.

“WHAT IN BLUE BLAZES ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?” Sarge’s voice echoed down the corridor, and Wash was almost certain that everyone on base had heard the man.

Donut bolted up in bed, hit his head on the ceiling, and toppled off the top bunk with an indignant squawk, his aloe-vera-enhanced eye mask knocked askew. “What? What’s going on? Are we under attack?! Sarge, I’m scared!”

Wash sighed and stepped inside, nudging Sarge out of the way while doing his best to ignore the heads poking out along the hall like a rigged game of whack-a-mole. “We’re not under attack, Donut. I just went to get breakfast.”

“What!” Donut pushed his eye mask up onto his forehead, the glittery applique eyes winking in the dim light. “But you’re supposed to be staying in bed!”

“I know,” Wash said, stepping over Donut to get to his bunk, all the while ignoring Sarge’s dark mutterings and unwavering gaze.

“Then why did you go?”

“Because I was hungry, and no one else was awake.”

“That’s what Lopez is for!” Sarge huffed, still glaring at Wash.

There was a heavy sigh from where the robot sat curled up in his corner. “Duermo también, sabes. Y estaba también durmiendo.”

“Yeah, Sarge! Even robots need their beauty rest.”

“Increíble. En realidad entiende eso.”

“I know, Lopez! It really _is_ important! If only _some people_ realized just how important getting the proper rest is, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Donut pointedly looked between the other non-robots in the room from his position on the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

There was another heavy sigh from Lopez’s corner overlaid by wet crunches as Wash devoured his first apple.

“I was really hungry, okay.”

“You should have woken one of us up.”

“I didn’t want to ruin your beauty rest.”

Donut huffed. “So much for that! I don’t know about you, Sarge, but my beauty rest has been completely ruined.”

Wash started on his second apple as he glanced over at the man still glaring at him. He chewed, swallowed, and said, “I wasn’t the one who woke up the entire base with my shouting.”

Sarge didn’t grumble; instead, he narrowed his eyes and let the darkness of his glower do all the talking.

With a soft groan more like a sigh, Donut stood up and broke Sarge’s line of sight. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m going back to bed. You should both join me.”

Wash decisively ignored Donut as Sarge sputtered.

“And skip my ritual 3:33 training session? Disgraceful, if not outright hypocritical! How could I possibly hold Grif to a strict schedule if I can’t even keep to my own!?”

“Oh, Sarge, I’m sure Grif wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s entirely beside the point!”

Wash snorted and finished his final apple. Only the questionable banana remained, and he peeled the spotty, soft fruit with a slight amount of trepidation. It looked okay, the gross coloration of the peel aside, so he set to eating it with his usual gusto.

“Wow, Wash!” said Donut, noticing the pile of apple cores as he turned to their bunk. “You eat really fast. I bet you could eat Grif out—”

Wash choked on the banana.

Instantly, Donut was at his side, hitting his back and cooing comfortingly about calming down and trying to breathe. Sarge shifted in place.

After Wash had stopped coughing and had wiped away the tears from his eyes, the light-red soldier gripped the former Freelancer’s shoulder reassuringly and said, his tone gently chiding, “That’s why you need to put your teeth to work before you swallow!”

Wash froze, the banana falling from his hand and landing on the floor with a sad splat.

“I think I should lie down.”

“Probably for the best, son.”

* * *

 

Bunking with the Reds had seemed like the best option at the time: the nature of their retrieval had rendered General Doyle’s assurances dubious at best, and with Locus free to move about unhindered, Sarge and Wash had agreed that bunking together, in addition to regular check-ins throughout the day, was tactically-sound. Donut had enthusiastically agreed to the sleepover arrangements and volunteered to coordinate the check-ins, Lopez said something incomprehensible, Donut translated it as agreement, and that was the end of that.

Except that now, as Donut shifted in the bunk above him and groaned about mismatched drapes and carpeting, Wash was having serious second thoughts about the sleeping arrangements.

He put an arm over his eyes and focused on his own breathing ( _not_ the breathing of the person overhead) while he waited for the wake-up call.

Sarge came back shortly before 0500, the gliding whisper of the door the only sign of his return; it was enough to rouse Donut and Lopez.

“Is it time to wake up?” Donut mumbled and rolled over. There was a quiet thump and a slight breeze over Wash’s face when Donut dangled his arm and head over the edge of the bunk.

“Yes,” Sarge replied, the quietest Wash had ever heard the man.

Donut groaned.

“Quit your bellyaching before you wake Sleepless Beauty.”

Wash lifted his elbow, peering at Sarge from under the cover of his arm. “I’m already awake.”

Sarge rolled his eyes just as Donut whispered, “Sorry…”

Wash let his arm drop back down, until his nose was once more fitted in the crook of his elbow. There was a quiet crinkling before something hit the pillow, just above his head. With a sigh, Wash reached up with the arm covering his eyes and snagged the ration bar.

“This is the saddest breakfast in bed. Ever. Of all time.”

Sarge snorted and tossed a bottle of water at Wash’s stomach. “Sorry to disappoint your Blue-blooded sensibilities, but we're at war! Crumpets and tea are in short supply, and all the eggs are powdered! Though I’m sure Captain Cupcake up there could conjure something more to your tastes.”

“Give me a day to source the ingredients, and I can!”

“Then you’re on breakfast duty tomorrow.”

“Alrighty!”

Wash made a show of rubbing the spot the bottle hit as he sat up. “You could have at least handed breakfast to me on a tray instead of throwing it.”

“Yeah, Sarge! Presentation is important!”

Sarge threw his hands up into the air and grumbled about ingrates and tag-teaming nitpickers before he departed to terrorize the Feds with his penchant for robotics, violence, and, most especially, robotic violence. Lopez followed shortly after.

Donut hopped off the top bunk and pulled a yoga mat from his locker. Wash decidedly did not think about where the mat had come from or wonder what was up with those stretches, instead opting to focus his attention on the ration bar Sarge had gone through the trouble of fetching. He was halfway through the dehydrated block of nutrients when Donut suddenly spoke.

“Hey, Wash?”

Wash glanced over, his teeth gummed shut by a larger-than-he-should-have-taken bite of the ration bar.

Donut’s ankles were up past his head as he rocked on his belly. “Tonight,” he said, sounding completely normal and not at all like his spine was bent at an extreme angle, “do you want the top or bottom?”

“Huh?” was Wash’s very articulate answer as he tried to work his teeth free with the help of his tongue.

“Tonight when we go to bed, do you want the top or bottom? Or do you want to toss to decide? I call heads for top!” To Wash’s immense relief, Donut relaxed his back-breaking pose and pulled out a coin.

Wash got the last of the ration bar unstuck from his teeth, swallowing a gulp of water before replying, “Tails.”

The coin went flipping through the air with an expert flick of Donut’s thumb.

“Oooh! Looks like I'll be top tonight!”

As Wash suppressed a groan and fell back on his bed, he wondered if whoever was listening in was enjoying the show.

* * *

 

The moment Wash was left alone, he got out of his bunk and began a thorough search and threat assessment of the room, stealing back beneath his covers every time he heard footsteps in the hall.

Over the course of the next two hours, he found a number of bugs hidden in various locations throughout the room, including some that had been replaced since his last sweep two days before. Wash disabled most of them, but elected to leave the one underneath Donut’s mattress untouched once more. He had several reasons for doing so, the most prominent being that he wanted whoever was bugging their room to underestimate their group, and that bug had been the cleverest one he'd found thus far. Only slightly less-prominent a reason was all the Donutisms whoever was spying on them would have to listen carefully to, and while Wash tried _not_ to delight in the thought of someone painstakingly listening to Donut’s every innuendo (Wash was pretty sure deliberate infliction of Donutisms qualified as torture under several statutes of intergalactic law), Sarge had had no similar qualms, his laugh bold and bawdy when Wash had discussed the bug issue with the Red sergeant the first morning after their release.

In any case, compared to the unfiltered air coming from the vent, the bugs were mere annoyances.

Sarge and Wash had ruled the vent out in the initial assessment since it was too small for even a child to pass through, and the sections of the filter visible through the vent grille had appeared intact. Upon closer inspection, however, Wash found signs of substantial degradation, and while it was possibly due to age, Wash believed sabotage was more likely considering the attempts at covert surveillance he’d spent his morning thwarting.

Regardless of the actual cause, the air filter was all-but useless at filtering anything smaller than a dust particle. Wash sent Lopez a note to requisition a new filter as soon as possible, and until the replacement could be installed, he hoped the makeshift repair he had cobbled together from spare blankets and some of Donut’s cleansing products would be enough. Even as he hoped, he doubted.

Which was why Wash was unsurprised to find himself waking up several hours later, groggy and with no memory of falling asleep. A ration bar and bottle of water sat next to his pillow while a shriveled orange rested in the crook of his arm.

With a groan and too-loud creaking of joints, Wash let the orange drop to the mattress as he stretched muscles stiff from being in the same position for hours. He ate lunch before he began another sweep of the room.

He found only one new bug.

The sinking feeling in Wash’s gut didn't ease up even after he sent a note to Lopez requesting another scan of the room asap. Instead, it got worse when Lopez only located the bug under Donut’s mattress.

As Wash ran through possible scenarios, each more dire than the last—interruption (but how did they evade capture?), better bugs (there should still be _some_ trace of _something_ ), psych out (they were onto him already)—his thoughts kept being drawn back to the meeting with General Doyle and how the other man had admitted to having no control over Locus. The more he thought about the situation, the more Wash became certain that the mercenary was responsible for the bugs and the vent: if the state of their chain of command were any indication, the Federal Army lacked the expertise to be a threat, and the surveillance ran counter to the earnestness the General had displayed.

Wash spent the rest of the day lying in bed, turning over plans and possible scenarios in his mind until the Reds came back, Donut humming an unfamiliar tune as he got ready for bed.

It would be another long and sleepless night for Wash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Donut was going to say: “I bet you could eat Grif out of base and canyon if the two of you had an eating competition!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Third and Final Day of mandatory bed rest, Donut sees to it that Wash gets a proper breakfast in bed (because ration bars are _so_ passé).

The Third and Final Day of mandatory bed rest, Wash woke up clinging to a very lavender unicorn. It even _smelled_ like lavender, and he was fairly sure the scent clung to his skin and hair as he extracted his face from under the unicorn’s soft nose, very confused and wondering when he’d fallen asleep.

The unicorn’s owner entered the room a moment later, a tray piled high with breakfast foods in one hand, a cup-carrier full of orange juice in the other, helmet nowhere to be seen. Donut’s already-bright face lit up even brighter when he saw that Wash was awake, and the light-red soldier all-but sang, “Good morning!” as he set breakfast down at the foot of Wash’s bunk before pulling out a small folding table and a tiny vase of apple blossoms.

While Donut set the table, chattering all the while about the goings-on of the Federal Army this morning, Wash wondered, not for the first time, how the light-red soldier managed to acquire his creature comforts—he speculated that the man had maybe missed his true calling in requisitions. However, Wash didn’t have long to speculate as Donut was impressively efficient at setting tables.

“So, Wash—” The younger man gestured at the setup with a flourish and a beaming smile. “—what do you think?”

Wash sat up and looked at the impressive spread of breakfast fare on the table before him; it easily beat Sarge’s ration bar.

“How did you get all… _this?_ ” he asked, gesturing at the bedecked table and the unicorn he was, for some unfathomable reason, still holding.

“Oh, I had help! Once you’re well enough to be out of bed, I have a _whole bunch_ of friends who’d _love_ to meet you!”

Wash looked between the table, Donut, the unicorn, and then back again. “Why?” he finally managed to ask, his voice sliding up with confusion at the end.

Donut stared at him for a second. “Because making friends is very important, Wash!” the light-red soldier finally said, hands coming up to emphatically shake the air (instead of Wash’s shoulders, which he appreciated considering he was out of armor). “We’re going to be working with these people for a while, so we should at least get to know them properly.”

Wash rubbed his free hand over his face and tried to think of a less offensive way to convey his confusion. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Donut crossed his arms loosely over his torso, head tilted to the side. “Then what _did_ you mean?”

“Why—” Wash lifted the plush with both hands, bringing it up to eye-level. “—am I holding a unicorn?”

“Oh! That!” Donut plopped down next to Wash. “You were having a pretty bad dream last night, so I figured some good old-fashioned aromatherapy was in order! Remember that lavender and chamomile spray I told you about? Well, I spritzed some onto Chris, and the moment I put him next to you, you quieted down and cuddled him.” Donut leaned closer, his voice dropping to a loud whisper. “It was really cute.”

Wash carefully put the unicorn down between them, using the motion to compose himself and ensure that Donut maintained his distance. “Chris?”

“That’s his name,” Donut said, picking the unicorn up to snuggle him.

“I see.”

“You can borrow him anytime!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wash said with the full intention of never doing any such thing.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, you should start breakfast. It would be a shame if it all got cold, especially the waffles.” Donut gestured grandly at the table of food with one arm, the other still holding Chris tight to his chest.

Wash’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stack of waffles (real waffles!) set next to a heaping pile of sausages. Or, more accurately, what was _on top_ of the waffles. “Is that... _whipped cream?_ ”

“Yup!”

“ _Real whipped cream?_ ” Wash picked up the platter with an emotion close to reverence.

“Yup! There’s even whipped butter and _real_ maple syrup!” Donut lifted the bowl and bottle respectively, proudly holding them up for Wash to see before setting them back down on the table.

“Oh my god,” Wash breathed out, reaching for the maple syrup.

Donut _beamed_ as Wash drowned his waffles in all-natural sugary deliciousness. “So,” he drawled out, eyes never leaving Wash’s face, “is this the best breakfast in bed you’ve ever had, or isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question, but Wash answered it anyway, pausing only to finish swallowing the first, wondrously fluffy bite of whole-grain waffle and lick the whipped cream from his lips. “Best breakfast in bed. Ever.” He licked the fork clean and added, “Of all time.”

The light-red soldier turned a darker shade of his trademark color and looked away. “Aw, shucks. You don’t need to exaggerate.”

“I’m not,” the Ex-Freelancer replied, navigating the syrup-dripping hazards of a heavily-saturated slice of waffle, trying not to get any of the precious liquid onto his clothes or the bunk. He managed to limit the mess to his chin. “This is the best breakfast in bed I’ve ever had. Ever.”

Donut flushed darker and glanced at Wash. “Really?” he asked, voice soft and hesitant.

“Really.”

Donut hummed and shifted. “That’s kinda sad.”

Wash shrugged and took another delicious bite of the waffles. He was already halfway through the stack, a small corner of his mind suggesting he slow down and take the time to properly savor each bite. The larger corners of his mind vetoed that suggestion, citing _real whipped cream and maple syrup_. It wasn’t until he finished the entire stack of waffles and wiped the last of the whipped cream off his nose (with his finger, which he licked clean) and the syrup off his chin (with a damp napkin, because his tongue wasn't long enough to get everything) that he noticed that Donut hadn’t taken a single bite.

“Aren’t you going to eat some?”

“Oh, I already ate breakfast.” Donut smiled, all traces of his earlier fluster gone. “Thanks for asking though!”

“Are you sure?” Wash looked over the substantial spread on the table. “There’s a lot of food here. I don’t think I can finish it all myself.”

“Well, if you _insist_.” Donut put Chris down on the bed before pulling an extra plate and set of silverware out of hammerspace. “I _always_ have room for more sausage!”

Wash choked as the orange juice he was sipping went down the wrong tube. He waved Donut away as the younger man moved to pat his back; Wash was not looking forward to the bruising that would result from armor-enhanced strikes on his unarmored back, well-meaning as the blows may have been.

Wash tensed as Donut’s hand brushed his leg, only then noticing how close the other man had gotten.

Donut stilled, pulled his hand off the mattress and onto his lap, and looked at Wash with an expression of not-quite hurt and uncertain contrition.

“Is there a problem with me?” the younger man asked quietly.

“No!” Wash’s reply came too quickly and loudly, and he fought to find something to say as Donut looked at him disbelievingly.

“Really?” The delivery was flat, skeptical, possibly annoyed. “Because you’re only this tense when I’m around.”

Wash couldn’t say anything as Donut looked at him seriously, knowing that the silence spoke far louder and clearer than he ever could.

Donut spoke before Wash could think of some sort of explanation or excuse for the silence. “Was it something I did?” His voice was quiet but even, gentle but not hesitant.

Wash let the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding out in a quick huff. “No,” he answered, hoping that his tone came across as definitive and not defensive. Wash made the effort to meet Donut’s intent gaze with his own level one.

Seeming satisfied with the honesty of that answer, Donut asked, “Was it something I said?”

“No...” Though the the constant innuendos certainly didn't help.

Donut frowned, his eyebrows drawing together into a perfectly-plucked V of perplexion, before a look of amazed understanding crossed his face. “You feel guilty about shooting me!” he exclaimed, a light-red finger pointed straight at the other man’s heart.

Wash choked. “How did you—?!”

“Wash—” Donut’s expression was the poster image for “completely unimpressed”. “—if you didn’t want me to find out, you should have changed your name when you changed your armor.”

The former Freelancer stared at the sim trooper as he thoroughly questioned his own competence. Of course Donut knew his name! A giggle escaped Wash’s mouth as he remembered Simmons calling “Agent Washington! It’s Agent Washington!” that day in Valhalla. The giggle quickly morphed into a snorting snigger before a final transformation into hysterical laughter.

“Um, Wash?”

The unease in Donut’s tone should have concerned him more, but Wash was a bit preoccupied with the pain in his chest as he doubled over from the convulsions and buried his face in his knees, hot tears streaming from his eyes and soaking his pants. He wasn’t sure how long it took for him to get his breathing back under control (too long) and to sit up (too slow), but his lungs ached and his throat burned, and Donut was watching him with the wide-eyed stare of someone trapped next to an injured wild animal.

The light-red soldier spoke hesitantly, drawing each syllable out in a slow singsong. “Are you okay?”

Wash bit back a snicker and shook his head. “I’m an idiot,” he said and frowned at the hoarseness of his voice.

“There, there.” Donut’s touch on his shoulder was light and slow, lacking the confidence behind his usual pats of reassurance, and all Wash wanted to do in that moment was bury himself in the deepest, darkest hole in existence; he settled for burying his face in his knees once more, pulling his shoulder out of Donut’s reach in the process.

Donut shifted closer, until their thighs were barely touching, and resumed rubbing soft circles into Wash’s back. “I’m sorry,” Donut said after a while, his hand stilling as Wash tensed up beneath his fingers.

“What?” He couldn’t have heard that right.

“I'm sorry. If I knew you felt that bad about shooting me, I wouldn't have done all those things to get back at you.”

Wash jolted upright. “What?”

“I really should have known better. I mean, you guys are some of the most emotionally constipated people I know! I've never met anyone else as seriously bad at the whole talking about your emotions thing, and I shouldn't have assumed that just because you didn't say you were sorry, you weren't—”

“Wait. Donut. Stop.”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to take over the entire conversation.”

“It's not that. Just.” Wash rubbed circles into his temples and forehead before turning his entire body to face Donut. “You've been doing little things to get back at me?!”

The younger man shifted, arms crossed over his chest as he avoided Wash’s gaze. “Yeah...”

Wash stared. Blinked. Thought about it. “I didn't even notice.”

Donut tsked. “We have _got_ to work on your emotional intelligence.”

Wash couldn’t help the quiet snort that escaped in response; that was a lot easier said than done when you had three lifetimes’ worth of emotions to sort through. “...What sorts of things did you do?” he asked, wondering what passed for petty vengeance in Donut’s mind (because Wash was sure he would’ve have noticed anything obvious).

Donut flushed, the grip on his crossed arms tightening a bit. “Well, there was that time I called you a dick in front of everyone...”

Wash could feel his jaw drop. “Because _I shot you_ ,” he replied, voice sliding up with incredulity.

“Yeah, but _I_ didn't have to be a dick about it too. If you're a dick and I'm a dick and everyone else is a dick, then nothing will get better because we'll all be too busy dicking around.”

Wash just looked at Donut, filing away the fact that, when upset, the younger man spoke very loudly with his hands.

Donut huffed and crossed his arms back over his chest. “It's true! And you know what they say: forgive and forget!”

Wash laughed, not even trying to conceal the brittle bitterness underlying the sound. “I can’t do either.”

“Nonsense!” The light-red soldier was having none of that negativity, if the sharpness with which his nose pointed at the top bunk was any indication. “Have you even tried?”

“Yes.”

Donut’s nose swooped down from its lofty height and came to a stop an inch away from Wash's own. Young eyes peered hard into tired ones aged beyond their years before the younger pair blinked and their owner pulled away, a trace of what might be a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He sighed.

“Well then,” Donut said, relaxing his arms and letting them drop to his sides, “you’ll just have to learn how to—” Donut paused for the briefest of moments, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he _grinned_. “— _Let it go!_ ”

“Donut, _NO!_ ”

“ _Let it go!_ ” The light-red soldier jumped up from the bed to avoid Wash’s tackle, not even pausing a beat. “ _Can’t hold me back anymo~re!_ ”

“Donut, I swear—!”

“ _Let it go!_ ”

“—if you continue singing that—”

“ _Let it go!_ ”

“—I will _end_ you!”

“ _Turn away and SLAM the door!_ ”

Wash collided with the door to their quarters, briefly wondering how Donut had managed to slam an automatic sliding door before it opened and he charged into the hall, a light-red figure rounding a corner as laughter echoed down the corridor.

“GET BACK HERE, DONUT!”

“Agent Washington! I certainly hope you’re not planning on any strenuous activities like, say, chasing other people around the base.”

Wash froze, the voice behind him icy with displeasure. He turned around slowly, schooling his expression into polite neutrality. “Doctor Grey. Uh. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for your daily checkup, of course!”

Wash knew that overly-cheery tone all too well; his sisters had always used it just before unleashing the full force of their wrath, and he did _not_ want to find out what Doctor Grey was like when angry, especially not when it was directed at him.

“Daily checkup?” he asked meekly, inching slowly back towards the room while plotting petty vengeance upon a certain light-red soldier (that sneaky little fruitcake; he _knew_ ).

“Oh, that’s right!” Doctor Grey matched Wash inch-for-inch on the slow trek towards the door. “You were asleep during the past two. I was beginning to think that I’d need to extend your bed rest period, and maybe take a good look inside your head again, though considering your current level of activity, it appears that won’t be necessary.” Doctor Grey sighed sadly. “Such a shame; your sulci and gyri make such lovely shapes!”

Yup. He was screwed. “Um… thank you. I think.”

“You have no idea what those are, do you?”

“No.”

“They’re your brain folds, though if you want to be more precise, the gyri are the folds themselves while the sulci are the grooves between.”

“That’s very... interesting.” He was almost to the door; if he timed it right, he _might_ be able to get inside and lock the door before Doctor Grey could follow… and then she would be even angrier at him and probably prescribe even more bed rest.

Wash resigned himself to his fate, knowing that it was safer for his health (in more ways than one) to comply with the Doctor’s requests.

Likely picking up on Wash’s change in posture or expression, Doctor Grey’s tone shifted to a much more pleasant one. She hummed happily before replying, “Isn’t it! Medical terminology is positively enlightening, especially when you get into the etymology of the terms! It’s such a shame that so few people are aware of them.” Doctor Grey sighed. “My job would be so much easier if my patients could be more precise in describing their ailments rather than complaining that ‘My tummy hurts!’ It’s terribly unspecific! And the more unspecific their complaints, the more possible causes I have to rule out before I can determine the proper diagnosis, much less the proper _treatment_.” The doctor shook her head, her helmet tilting to look Wash more directly in the eye. “And don’t get me started on the unruly patients, especially those who don’t show up for their scheduled appointments. They make everything more difficult than it needs to be, especially when it comes to rescheduling.”

Wash tried not to look too guilty. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is, but I cope! Now, that’s enough dallying! Let’s get you checked out!” she said, guiding an unresistant Wash back inside his shared quarters with a firm hand each on his upper arm and elbow.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, knowing the answer he was going to get.

“Yes! In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve slept through the past two days in their entirety. That is _hardly_ normal behavior, and I need to ensure that you are physically well enough to be cleared for duty.”

Wash sighed. “And if I check out? Will I be able to go about my business like usual?”

“Oh no. I fully expect you to spend the rest of the day in bed.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s about it! I said three full days of bed rest, and I _meant_ three full days of bed rest. Now—” The too-cheerful voice returned with a vengeance. “—if you’d come to my office for that first checkup like I’d told you to, you _might_ have gotten away with only two days of bed rest. But as you did not, three full days it is.”

“But—” Doctor Grey cut him off with a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. A missed appointment is a missed appointment, and I _cannot_ have you setting a terrible example for the troops. It’s difficult enough as it is to schedule appointments without rescheduling making things even more so. Now who is this?” The doctor scooped the unicorn up from the foot of the bed and hugged him to her chest.

“That’s Chris.”

“Is he yours?”

“Donut’s.”

“Oh! Let me guess! He’s letting you borrow Chris as a sleep aid.”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“Oh, I suggested it to him during your last checkup! Has it helped?”

“According to Donut, yes.”

“Marvelous! It’s always wonderful to see patients taking the initiative in improving their health.” Doctor Grey held Chris out to Wash.

The Ex-Freelancer took the unicorn and placed the plush back onto the bed.

“Why don’t you use him as your pillow?” Doctor Grey suggested as she checked over her scanner, tapping in parameter adjustments and other such minor calibrations.

“Why?”

“To help make you more comfortable, of course! Clearly examinations are quite stressful for you, and if hugging a stuffed animal helps you sleep better, it may help in this situation as well.”

Wash frowned and glared at the lavender animal. “I’m not a child.”

Doctor Grey shook her head and sighed. “Sweetie, there’s nothing childish about needing comfort. It’s a basic emotional need regardless of your age. Now, if you could lie down on your stomach, I’ll just take a quick look at your implants to ensure that everything is healed properly.”

“I’m not a sweetie,” Wash grumbled as he followed Doctor Grey’s direction, trying to appear relaxed as he buried his face in light-purple fluff. It helped that Chris still smelled faintly of lavender, even as Wash’s back prickled at being exposed to someone he didn’t fully trust.

The examination was quick and thankfully noninvasive, with Doctor Grey waving her medical scanner over the back of his head and neck and humming over the results.

“It appears you’re all clear! However, I still expect to see you tomorrow morning at 0800 in my office for a final checkup. Do _not_ skip out this time.”

“I won’t,” Wash promised, relieved to be sitting up again.

“Good. Now, once you finish your breakfast, it’s straight back to bed with you, clear?”

“Yes.”

“None of that chasing teammates around the base, understood?”

“I didn’t—”

“Ah!” Doctor Grey interrupted, one hand held up in the universal gesture to stop right there. “You were going to!”

“Not very far,” Wash grumbled.

“Outside of this room was too far, honey. I’ll be back to check on you later, like usual, and I fully expect to find you in bed and resting, are we clear?”

He sighed. “Perfectly.”

“Excellent! Have a good day, Agent Washington.”

Doctor Grey exited a moment later, the door whooshing to a rather final close behind her. Wash looked over at the table, still laden with food, and debated about how hungry he was (hungry enough that he didn’t mind how cold the eggs and sausages had become once he’d drowned them in maple syrup). He took the time to savor each sweet bite this time, eating away at the otherwise-idle time as he gradually cleared the table of food, stacking the empty plates as he finished.

When the only things left on the table were a stack of dirty plates, the vase of flowers, a half-finished bowl of whipped butter, and a severely depleted bottle of maple syrup, Wash poured the remaining syrup into a small flask he kept just for that purpose and stowed it safely back inside one of his armor pouches (the pieces having long since been moved underneath his bunk).

With nothing else to do, Wash buried his face into Chris’s back and inhaled the faint scent of lavender mingled with the apple blossoms still on the table, the comfortable feeling of fullness and sweetness of maple still on his tongue lulling him into a light doze.

The rest of the day was completely uneventful with Wash drifting between contemplating Donut’s revelations and ways to get back at the light-red soldier, and that state of half-wakefulness on the brink of dreaming, though Wash would snap himself awake whenever he caught himself drifting off. Sarge stuck his head through the door around noon to toss Wash a ration bar and water bottle for lunch, Lopez in tow for the daily bug scan and air filter check. Donut stopped by later with dinner, lingering only long enough to clear away the plates from breakfast, his exit yet again timed perfectly with Doctor Grey’s arrival.

The night was slightly more eventful, with Donut falling out of bed two hours after lights-out. Getting the still-sleeping man back _into_ bed wound up being quite the adventure, and in the end, Wash only succeeded with Sarge’s very disgruntled help.

As soon as midnight finally rolled around, Wash was back in full armor and out exploring the base, getting a better feel of the layout and defenses he’d only seen in plans before now.

And this time, he would be sure to arrive at Doctor Grey’s office at least ten minutes before 0800.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Donut revealing he knows Wash shot him was so hard to write. I hope I did a good job. x_x Especially since it’s one of the reasons why Donut features so heavily in this fic instead of being relegated to background character duty (alongside Lopez).
> 
> Speaking of Lopez, I forgot to mention in last chapter’s notes that you can hover over his dialogue with your cursor to read the intended translation. Because footnotes are kind of cumbersome, and Lopez is only funny when you know what he’s saying.
> 
> Chris is totally a [Pillow Pet](https://mypillowpets.com/shop/magical-unicorn/), and I will fill a fic request for you if you can figure out why he’s named Chris.
> 
> Hint: It has everything to do with unicorns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sarge is just as subtle as a naked elephant dancing on bubble wrap, Wash meets Donut’s new friends, and Doctor Grey is very Not Pleased.

“Good morning, Black and Decker!”

Wash halted in confusion as he entered the training room, his helmet tucked under one arm. Sarge just tapped the cheek below his left eye and raised an eyebrow at Wash in reply.

Wash mirrored Sarge’s motion, hand coming up to touch the tender skin around his right eye. He winced as his fingers barely brushed against his cheek, the pain disproportionate to the pressure. “That bad?” he asked ruefully.

Sarge flung his towel over his shoulder and stared at Wash, completely unimpressed. “Didn’t you look in a mirror this morning?”

“When I got up. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Welp.” Sarge shrugged. “It is now.”

Wash sighed. “Great. Just what I need. _Another_ reason for Doctor Grey to scold me.”

“Eh. Just tell her what happened. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“If I survive long enough to tell her.”

Sarge waved a hand dismissively and began heading for the locker room. “So what brings you here so bright and early?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the pest control issue in our quarters,” Wash replied, following the other man to the door in the far corner.

Sarge snorted and glanced over his shoulder at Wash, a bushy eyebrow raised almost to his hairline. “Yeah? What about it?”

“I think they’re onto us.”

Sarge chuckled. “And what makes you think that?”

“When I cleared out the bugs the other day—”

Sarge swatted at Wash with the towel. “You were supposed to be resting.”

Wash dodged the swipe and ignored Sarge’s comment. “—there was only one new bug after I woke up.”

The Red Leader huffed and pulled the locker room door open with a bit more force than necessary before power-walking on through. “And isn’t that a good thing?” he asked gruffly.

“No, because there could be more that I just can’t find.”

“Then have Lopez take a look.”

“I already did.”

“Then what are you still worrying about?!” Sarge whirled about and leaned up against a locker, arms crossed over his chest. The T-shirt he wore was soaked with sweat and clung to the contours of his rather impressive musculature.

It took Wash more effort than he wanted to admit to redirect his attention from the other man’s physique (and the jealousy it inspired) back onto the topic at hand. “Lopez might not be able to detect the new bugs.”

“Nonsense!” Sarge growled, shoving off the locker to stand in a huff. “He’s got the best in snooper-spying technology installed. I upgraded him myself just the other day!” Sarge nodded as if that remark settled the entire matter before pulling off his shirt, tossing it onto the bench behind him.

“That makes things _worse_.”

Sarge paused to stare at Wash, one leg halfway out of his sweatpants. “How in Hoboken does that make things _worse?_ ”

“Because it means that he _knows_.”

Sarge finished freeing his legs, dropping the sweatpants on top of the shirt before replying, “So?”

“So?! This is _serious_ Sarge!”

Sarge sighed heavily, dropping his boxers on top of the clothes pile and opening the locker he was leaning against earlier. The Red Leader pulled out a towel and draped it over his shoulders as he turned to face Wash.

“Son, you’re telling me that you know that he knows that you know, and he knows that you know that he knows, and the two of you know that you two know what you know. But did you ever stop to think that I know that the two of you know what you two know?!”

Wash blinked, tried to make sense of what Sarge had just said, and failed. “...I think I need to lie down,” the former Freelancer said as he rubbed at the headache forming behind his eyes.

Sarge scoffed. “Again? You've done nothing but lie down for days! If you lie down any longer, your pants’ll catch fire!”

Wash dropped his hand from his face. “What?”

The other man raised an eyebrow and released the ends of his towel just to cross his arms over his chest. “Don't tell me you've never heard the expression ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’!?”

“I have, but, that's not even the same lie!”

Both eyebrows were up now. “Are you questioning my vocabulary, son?”

“No, Sarge.” Wash crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Sarge’s indignant posture. “I am _rejecting_ your choice of vocabulary.”

“Of course you are!” Sarge groused, tossing his hands up into the air as he paced in a tight circle before his still-open locker. “What was I thinking, expecting a dirty Blue to appreciate fine wordplay? Not that anyone appreciates fine wordplay. It’s a dying art.”

“And you’re the starving artist,” Wash replied, keeping his face straight and tone level.

Sarge came to a sudden halt and spun back to face Wash, an expression of exaggerated horror upon his visage. “What? No! They all starved to death ages ago. I’m just a rare aficionado, going around, doing my damndest to keep the art alive.”

Wash snorted and shook his head. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Sarge grinned and shut his locker so he could lean against the door. “Because what else is there to discuss?” He chuckled and shrugged. “Locus is spying on us. He knows we know. He keeps planting bugs, and we’ll keep swatting them until someone does something drastic. Preferably involving my shotgun.”

Wash sighed. “It’s the ‘something drastic’ that worries me.”

The Red Leader snorted and rolled his eyes. “ _Everything_ worries you, son, but unless you’re planning on a different kind of worrying with me in the shower this fine morning—” Sarge waggled his eyebrows. “—this is your cue to shoo.”

It hit Wash just then how very _naked_ Sarge was, with only a clean towel slung over his broad shoulders (instead of _around his waist like a normal person_ ).

“I’ll just… I’m going to… go get breakfast,” Wash stammered, feeling the sudden heat from his face trickle all the way down his spine, even as he failed to pin down just why he was so flustered. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen naked people before (he’d been in a military environment for _years_ , after all; he should be completely used to it by now, especially with how Tucker—nope. Not going there).

The (very naked) sergeant shrugged, one hand coming up to grasp the end of his towel. “Sounds like a plan. Now stop lollygagging and skeedaddle!”

Sarge’s towel snapped against Wash’s thigh as Wash turned to leave, and the former Freelancer did his best to ignore the other man’s cackling as he stalked off to the mess hall.

He was halfway to the mess when he realized that _Sarge_ had brought up Locus, instead of him.

* * *

 

Donut had the uncanny habit of finding Wash whenever the latter was trying to avoid him. This morning was no exception.

“Ouch, Wash,” Donut said as he cornered the Ex-Freelancer near the still-brewing coffee pot. “That’s quite the shiner. Did you get into a fight or something?”

“No.”

Donut tutted, clearly unconvinced. “I have some arnica cream that will help with the bruising, but really, Wash, you don’t have to hide these things from me. I totally get that, sometimes, you’ve just got to pound that other guy into the ground so hard they can’t walk straight for a week. If you ever want some help, I’ve got your rear covered 100%!”

Wash took a deep breath, held it for a ten count, and _sighed_ , visualising the innuendos dissipating with the force of his exhalation. “Donut?” he asked, tone level and carefully free of all traces of irritation.

“Yes?” the light-red soldier asked while rummaging through the bag of necessities he’d hoisted onto the coffee counter.

“From now on, I think it would be best if I took the top bunk.”

Donut looked up at him, confusion quirking his brow as he pulled out the tube of arnica cream. “I thought you didn’t have a preference. What changed?”

“You don’t remember falling out of bed last night, do you.”

“Oh.” Donut’s eyes widened comically. “Oh! Oh, Wash! I’m so sorry! I thought that was a dream because when I woke up this morning, I was tucked tight in bed.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “So tight in fact that I could barely feel anything below my waist. I couldn’t even sit up properly, and the tingling in my legs _just_ stopped.”

Wash coughed, not needing to know that particular level of detail, even as he made a mental note to avoid tucking blankets tight enough to cut off blood circulation in the future. “I had to make sure you wouldn’t fall out of bed again.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you, Wash. You could have just left me on the floor. That’s what everyone else does.”

“What.”

Donut continued chattering, completely oblivious to the expression on the rest of Wash’s face as he focused on dabbing cream around Wash’s bruised eye. “I’m surprised you managed to get me back in bed! The last time Simmons tried, we got completely tangled in the sheets. Lopez had to tear us apart, we were that tightly entwined.” The light-red soldier sighed sadly, wiping his fingers on a napkin before putting away the tube of arnica. “Those were my best sheets, too.”

Wash just blinked, not sure how to respond to that. He settled on, “Sarge helped.”

Donut’s grin grew even brighter. “Of course he did! Sarge is the best commanding officer I’ve ever had. Oh! That reminds me! It’s been a while since I last showed my appreciation. Do you think he likes macramé?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Hm…” Donut's brow knit with consternation. “I don’t want to give him anything _too_ obscure. Oh! I know! You can never go wrong with a hand-knitted scarf, and I have _just_ the perfect color of yarn! I’ll have to start working it up for him during lunch if I want to finish before dinner, so don’t expect to see me until later tonight!”

Wash frowned. “You're not skipping lunch, are you?”

“Oh, _no!_ ” Donut's wide-eyed gaze of horror spoke volumes of his opinion on the matter. “I'll just find myself a quiet corner somewhere and snack in between stitches. I think I still have some meal replacement bars _somewhere_...” Donut's hands wandered all over his body, fingers deftly patting down the many pouches on his person. “Aha! Here they are! Don't you worry about a thing, Wash! I won't starve! Oh! That reminds me! Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No. I was just about to—” Wash was abruptly hushed by Donut's fingers being placed firmly over his lips.

“Say no more, Wash. You're having breakfast with us.”

“Us?”

“Remember those friends of mine I told you about the other day?”

“Sort of?” They were the ones who helped Donut get all the ingredients, if Wash remembered correctly (and he usually did).

Donut linked his arm, elbow-to-elbow, with Wash’s in response. “Well today's the day you finally get to meet them!”

“Can I at least get my coffee first?”

Donut glanced disdainfully at the fresh pot. “That swill? Nonsense! We have _actual_ coffee at our table.” And with that said, Donut began pulling (not dragging) Wash towards a table near the tray return. The table was occupied by a group of six soldiers that looked vaguely familiar (then again, all the Feds wore standard-issue armor, so that was to be expected), and most of the soldiers seated there burst into raucous laughter just as Donut approached, Wash still in tow.

“Good morning, everyone!”

A chorus of “Good morning, Donut!” hailed them, with a more subdued “Good morning, Donut,” sounding from the woman sitting at the end of the table closest to the tray return.

“And Agent Washington!” The young man at the end farthest from the tray return stood up and saluted, the brown accenting his armor matching the brown of his hair. “It’s an honor to finally get to meet you.”

From next to the still-saluting soldier, a soldier with vivid green eyes pivoted in his seat and explained, “Donut’s told us lots about you.”

“It’s good to see you up and about,” the soldier sitting across from her (still-saluting!) brown and green comrades said quietly. Her accents were a deep red that matched the rims of her glasses.

“Is it true that Locus hit you so hard you had to, like, have brain surgery?” asked the soldier with sky-blue accents just before green-eyes elbowed her in the side.

“Specialist Novak!” said the woman at the end, her dark hair severely pulled back and exposing the prominent widow’s peak on her forehead. “Please keep your questions _appropriate_.”

“Sorry, Corporal.” The specialist looked sheepishly over her shoulder at Wash. “Sir.”

“Don’t worry about it!” chirped Donut, maneuvering Wash around the table to take a seat between him and a dark-skinned woman with hot pink accents, opposite Novak. “No harm done, right Wash?”

“Right.”

“See? Everything’s _fine_. So relax!” Donut looked pointedly at the brown-haired soldier who finally stopped saluting and reclaimed his seat. “Now where’s the Sergeant this morning?” Donut asked, masterfully steering the conversation towards safer waters while pouring Wash a cup of coffee; it smelled heavenly.

“Your sergeant dragged her off earlier to discuss some, hm, what was his specific phrasing?” The Corporal turned to the soldier at her immediate right, the one with the hot pink accents.

“I believe it was ‘sergeant-specific stratagems, and not the mining type,’” the young lady replied, matching Sarge’s inflection and even mimicking his gruff tone of voice; Wash couldn’t suppress the small snort of laughter at that.

“Thank you, Solarin,” the Corporal said with a small smile she quickly suppressed.

Solarin smiled and went back to eating her breakfast.

Donut sighed loudly, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling in an exaggerated show of disappointment as he spooned some sugar into Wash’s coffee. “I was hoping to introduce everyone at the same time, but oh well.” He slid the coffee over to Wash and grinned as the former Freelancer lifted the cup to savor the scent.

Wash took a sip, and sighed contentedly. It was perfectly sweetened: just enough to take the edge off the bitterness, but not so much that the richness of the flavor was overpowered, and the flavor itself was excellent. Wash briefly wondered when Donut had learned how he took his coffee before just as quickly concluding that Caboose had told the Red during one of their many arts-and-crafts sessions.

Wash closed his eyes and took another sip, trying to focus on the acidity blossoming over his tongue instead of his missing team.

Donut’s shoulder bumped into his, and Wash looked over as the younger man leaned closer and stage whispered, his hand raised to hide his mouth from view, “I told you we had good coffee.”

Wash hummed noncommittally and took another sip.

Donut huffed and handed Wash a bagel. “As I was saying, I was hoping to introduce everyone at the same time, but since the Sergeant is busy, we’ll just have to make do. If you would do the honors, Corporal?”

The Corporal nodded and stood, moving to the head of the table to get a better vantage. “I am Corporal Soto, second-in-command of the pl—” Soto’s left eye twitched as she quickly corrected herself. “—section under Sergeant Patel assigned to escort and assist your team in interactions with the Federal Army of Chorus. Our duties include mediating disputes between yourselves and Federal soldiers, keeping you informed of the rules and regulations governing the Federal Army, providing navigational assistance, and ensuring your safety during travel between bases and in the event of an attack by rebel forces. As such, it is strongly recommended that at least one of us be present to escort the members of your team at all times.” The Corporal gave Wash a very pointed look. “To your immediate left is Specialist Solarin.”

Solarin nodded.

“Across from you is Specialist Novak.”

Novak waved, the tips of her hair dyed the same sky-blue as her armor accents. “Hi!”

“Next to her are Privates 1st Class Katayama and Wright.”

Green-eyes tilted his head while brown-hair tossed another quick salute.

“Sitting next to Private Donut is Private Mellor.”

The girl with the glasses waved shyly and gave a polite smile.

“Our quarters are located immediately adjacent to and across from your own. Additionally, we will be attached to you for the foreseeable future, so I suggest you work with us and stop wandering around without an escort.”

Wash had been wondering about the apparent absence of one during his earlier escapades, but before he could excuse his lack of cooperation, Wright spoke up, ignoring the elbow in his side courtesy Katayama.

“I look forward to working with you, sir!” he said, grin almost as bright as one of Donut’s.

“I... hope we work well. Together.” Wash wanted to kick himself for the lack of eloquence. Fortunately, no one else seemed to notice (or care about) how lame a reply it was.

Donut just happily clapped his hands and said, “I’m sure we will, especially after we get to know each other more intimately! Ohhh! I know! How about we do some icebreakers?”

“Unfortunately—” More like thankfully. “—I can’t stay long. I have an appointment.” Wash contemplated the coffee still in his cup; it was a little less than halfway full, and while he could chug it in one go, it seemed a shame not to savor the brew. He took a bigger mouthful with his next sip, as a compromise between enjoying a rare treat and timeliness.

“Who with?” asked Katayama, poking at a pile of green _something_ on his tray.

“Doctor Grey.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Donut looked at Wash, disapproval radiating from him like the halo around a bright star. “You don’t want to miss that. _Again_.”

Novak leaned across the table, her voice lowered conspiratorially. “So it’s true?”

“You skipped out on an appointment with _Doctor Grey?_ ” Wright asked, the expression on his face closer to _awe_ than anything else.

Wash looked around the table to find all eyes intently on him. “...Yes?” he replied, consciously trying not to fidget under all the scrutiny. He took a sip of his coffee.

Katayama snorted, looked Wash directly in the eyes, and said, straight-faced, “You are either the bravest man I’ve ever met, or the stupidest.”

Wash didn’t know how to respond to that, so he took another sip.

“I’d say bravest,” declared Wright with a confident smile.

“Nah. Definitely stupidest,” said Novak, waving her fork dismissively.

“Why not both?” suggested Solarin.

“I can see both,” Wright mused, one hand on his chin. “Remember that stunt he pulled in the canyon?”

Corporal Soto’s voice cut through the conversation, sharp with disapproval. “Like anyone here would ever forget what happened in that canyon.”

A heavy silence fell over the table, and Wash realized with slowly sinking dread _why_ the soldiers had looked so familiar: they had been among the troops sent to the canyon to retrieve the Reds and Blues. Troops that he had meticulously slaughtered with traps and tactics.

Wash eased his cup of coffee down onto the table, his stomach churning too much to even consider drinking more. He tried not to wonder how many of their friends and family he had killed, or if he was sorry about killing them.

He wondered anyway.

“Right... Sorry.” Wright slouched into his seat, making himself as small as possible.

“But no. I see where you’re coming from,” Novak said as Katayama wrapped an arm around his friend to keep him from sinking completely below the table. “Like, collapsing that cave was pretty gutsy. And also really stupid. Like, he could have crushed his teammates!”

Wash felt the blood drain from his face as he realized that _she was right_. He had had no way to ensure that the cave wouldn’t collapse on top of his men, and _Tucker was standing right at the entrance_. What if Tucker had gotten clipped by, or even _worse, buried beneath_ , the falling rocks?! What if Wash had _killed his own team?!_ What if—

Donut's hand clamped around his wrist, and Wash barely resisted the reflex to punch the younger man.

“Oh my god.” Novak’s hands were over her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at Wash. “Forget I ever said that.”

Wash shook himself out of it, steadfastly ignoring Donut's worried gaze. “In any case,” Wash replied, patting Donut's hand to signal that it was okay to let go, “it’s not a mistake I plan on repeating.”

“What? Caving in holes or standing up doctors?” Donut asked, his expression far too innocent, giving Wash's wrist a final reassuring squeeze before releasing it.

Wash looked at the light-red soldier, ideas forming as to what constituted “getting back at someone” in Donut's mind. “Both,” Wash replied, tone carefully flat and his eye contact steady; two could play this game.

Donut simply smiled, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes marking it as genuine. “Then you’d better be off! I’ll see you at dinner.”

“...Right.” Wash stood and, after a nod of acknowledgement to the other soldiers at the table, donned his helmet and departed for the medical wing. He paid little attention to Private Mellor’s shadowing, plans for petty vengeance quietly simmering in the back of his mind as he navigated the corridors without her assistance.

It was _on_.

* * *

 

Wash stood outside Doctor Grey's office ten minutes before his scheduled appointment, running through scenarios about how to best explain what happened to his eye. With a sigh, he took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, figuring it was better to get the inevitable lecture out of the way as quickly as possible.

He took a deep breath, schooled his features into something less nervous or defensive, opened the door, and stepped inside.

“Before you say anything, let me explain—”

Doctor Grey held up her hand from where she sat, her desk strewn with datapads and papers. “No need,” she chirped, standing up and walking over to Wash. “Donut was not very— Now what _is_ that word? Ah! — _discreet_ during his apologies this morning. And he is quite correct about the quality of the coffee. Do you think he'd be willing to share?”

Wash blinked but quickly regained his balance. “I could ask?”

“Please do! Now let's have a proper look at you. Follow me, dear.” With that, Doctor Grey strode out of the office and into the hall.

Wash stepped out a moment after and found Doctor Grey talking to Private Mellor.

“And how are _your_ eyes doing, sweetie?”

“Much better now that I have the glasses.”

“Excellent! Now that we’re all present, we’re off to the med bay!” With that, Doctor Grey darted off in the direction of the infirmary, leaving Wash quite bemused and jogging to keep up.

“Is she always like this?” he asked Mellor as the doctor turned the corner and went out of sight far ahead.

“Yes.”

“Come along, slowpokes! Time’s a-wasting!” Doctor Grey sang, peeking back around the corner.

Wash sighed and picked up the pace. Fortunately, the infirmary wasn’t too far past the corner, and by the time Wash and Mellor arrived, Doctor Grey was waiting outside, tapping her foot impatiently, with a private room ready to go.

She ushered Wash inside and nudged Mellor over to the side of the door. “Be a dear and wait out here. This shouldn’t take long!”

Wash tried not to attribute a note of finality to the shutting of the door, but the Doctor’s humming as she skipped over to fiddle with the instruments in the corner of the room put his already-frazzled nerves on edge. His movements were slow and mechanical, the result of habit and long practice, as he stripped down to his undersuit and took a seat on the examination table occupying the larger part of the room.

Wash took a deep breath as he reminded himself that the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could leave.

“You can leave a channel open to your team and record this session if you’d like,” Doctor Grey suddenly said, still fiddling with some instrumentation.

Wash frowned with confusion. “Why would I?”

“Oh, I just thought that it would make you more comfortable if you boys could openly monitor this examination. I understand you have some longstanding anxiety when it comes to receiving medical treatment?” The doctor looked up at Wash, somehow conveying innocent interest with her helmeted gaze.

“Wait, what?” When did she—

“Oh, I’m sorry! Did I misinterpret your reluctance to check in last time?” A very familiar edge entered her voice, threatening Consequences should she find his answer inadequate.

It took Wash more effort than he wanted to admit _not_ to gulp visibly when he answered “No…,” though he was sure the doctor noticed him shifting uncomfortably on edge of the examination table. “But what did you mean by ‘openly monitor’?”

Doctor Grey hummed, helmet tilted as she regarded Wash. “My medical scanner is quite sensitive. I had to recalibrate it to account for the covert listening devices you have in your quarters.”

Wash just stared the doctor; the doctor stared back.

After a drawn-out staring contest (which Wash was quite sure he won), Doctor Grey asked, her tone carefully mild, “You didn’t put them there?”

Wash slowly shook his head.

“Oh. Well. I _see_. In that case, it looks like I’ll be having another discussion with a certain _someone_ about respecting others’ boundaries. But that will have to wait until later! We have an examination to conduct! Now, I’ll need to you take off that undersuit. Don’t be shy! I’ve seen it all before.”

Wash could feel heat rise up into his face. “That… doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Doctor Grey giggled. “It's not supposed to, honey.”

“Please don't call me that.”

She hummed and look up at the ceiling, a finger resting under her chin in an exaggerated thinking pose. “How about cutie pie?”

“No.”

“Poptart?”

“No.”

“Lollipop?”

Wash looked at her strangely, his mind going places he would rather it _not_ , especially while undressing in front of someone else. “No.”

“Oooh! I know!” she chirped, and Wash could practically see the figurative light bulb pop on over her head. “Pumpkin!”

“That isn't even sweet,” he pointed out, sitting back down on the examination table in only his undershirt and briefs.

Doctor Grey giggled. “But you're not saying no!”

“No.”

Doctor Grey crossed her arms over her chest, the tilt of her helmet indicating an intense squint directed at Wash. “Dear lemon warhead.”

Wash matched the tilt of the doctor’s head. “What?”

“They're old Earth hard candies with a sour coating and sweet interiors!”

“I know what they are, but why that?”

“Well, the way I see it, you present a sour exterior to others while being quite sweet on the inside. Just like a lemon warhead!”

Wash could feel himself blushing. That was perhaps the nicest thing anyone had said to him in years. Even if it was completely wrong. “I'm not sweet. At all.”

“Whatever you say, my dear lemon warhead.”

“ _Please_ don't call me that.”

Doctor Grey sighed as she wheeled an instrument cart closer to the table. “Then what _would_ you like to be called?”

“Wash. Just... Wash is fine.”

The doctor hummed happily. “Wash it is! Now if you would lie facedown on the examination table, we'll get you checked out in just a jiffy!”

The examination this time was a lot more thorough and time-consuming, with Doctor Grey scanning the entire length of Wash’s spine instead of just his head and neck. There were also the more routine checkup procedures, like checking his heartrate (which he tried to keep reasonable by focusing on his breathing instead of the prickly sensation of electronics hovering over his exposed back) and blood pressure.

He was just glad that the examination process didn’t involve being touched; the doctor’s tuneless humming was unnerving enough.

As soon Doctor Grey told him he could, Wash sat up and asked, “Well?” hoping his voice didn’t betray the immense sense of relief not having his back exposed instilled within him.

“Well?” she echoed back, her tone teasing as she rolled the equipment cart back to its corner and jotted down a few last-second notes on a datapad.

“Am I cleared for duty?”

Doctor Grey sighed and shook her head in exasperation. “Yes, though I am authorizing you for _light_ duty, and I fully expect you to take the time to rest after we arrive at the new base. By the way, just let me know when would be a good time to come around and hunt down those pesky little privacy violations. Consider it an open invitation, in fact!”

Wash paused in pulling on his undersuit. “You don’t have to trouble yourself wi—”

“Nonsense!” she said, waving her datapad in reprimand. “I am responsible for the health and wellbeing of everyone present, and invasions of privacy are not at all conducive to either. Now get dressed and be off! I am a very busy woman, you know!”

“Er, yes,” Wash said, picking up the pace in dressing himself. He got his armor back on in record time and left Doctor Grey in the room, still doing data entry. With nothing on his schedule for the next hour, Wash made a beeline for the training room.

He had _a lot_ of nervous energy to work off.

* * *

 

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, with most of it spent preparing for the transfer to the new base.

By the time Wash returned to their shared quarters, Donut and Lopez were already there, the robot in his usual corner, Donut sitting on the bottom bunk.

“Hey Wash!” Donut beamed, his face coated in an unholy concoction of mud and moisturizer. “You _just_ missed Doctor Grey. She found a bug in your mattress, but she said that now that she's squished it, the room is _completely_ clean!” The younger man shuddered. “I wish I was as brave as her. Bugs creep me out, especially the fat ones that make that wet noise when you swat them and _ooze_ everywhere—”

“Please stop. I get the picture.”

“Okie-dokie!”

Wash changed into his sleeping attire with his usual efficiency and went to climb into bed, only to be stopped by a light touch on his wrist. He looked over to where Donut sat on the lower bunk, a worried frown making small cracks in his mask.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright with being up top? The bottom is _a lot_ easier.”

Wash didn't so much as bat an eye this time. “I’m sure, Donut,” he said, climbing the ladder and hauling himself onto the bed.

“If you say so. Goodnight, Wash.”

“Goodnight, Donut, Lopez.”

“Buenas noches, Washington.” There was a brief pause before Lopez added, “Y Idiota.”

“You can't just _say_ something's an idiom, Lopez! You've got to _actually say_ the idiom.”

Lopez simply sighed from where he sat in his corner and shut off the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. Would not. Stop. Expanding.
> 
> It’s kind of sad how the only Feds with any substantial roles are Doyle and Grey. And so OCs were inevitable. So many OCs. @_@
> 
> And now this is turning into Prescription-Strength Frosted Sargington. GOD. It’s at the point where I’m going “How many Wash ships can I fit in this fic?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut’s Really Bad Day, wherein he loses some stuff in the move to the new base, gets into a fight about his armor color, is sent to his room, has the wrong cheese with his wine, and suffers a ruined Club meeting.

A Fed soldier went flying overhead, and Wash tilted his helmet up to follow the trajectory across the room, straight into the trash disposal.

“He has a _really_ good arm,” the former Freelancer offhandedly observed to the man by his shoulder.

“Yep,” was Sarge's succinct reply.

A very frazzled Corporal Soto glared at the both of them. “Are you planning to just stand there and admire his tossing, or are you going to help put a stop to this?”

Sarge shrugged. “Might help if we knew why Cupcake over there was tossing people around to begin with.”

“Because someone called him Cupcake to his face.”

Sarge stopped watching the melee in the mess hall and stared at Soto. “What,” he said flatly, his posture speaking volumes about his disbelief.

Wash shook his head, equally skeptical. “That can't be the only reason.”

“Well, as far as I’m aware, that _is_ the reason,” the Corporal said as she pushed through the crowd towards the brawl in the center of the room, Sarge following close behind, jabbing any unfortunate soldiers in his way with sharp elbows and even sharper kicks to their shins.

Wash followed in their combined wake, spine stiff and in full “officer on a mission” mode as he tried to distinguish coherent phrases from the cacophony of voices and clashing armor.

“—riding my rear!”

“—call you a p—”

“YOU FUCKER I’LL—”

“—toss him into—”

“MY LAP!”

“ENOUGH!” roared Sarge, barreling into the heart of the fight like a drunken elephant. As the fighters slowed with shock, the Red Leader snatched the remains of a table from Private Wright with a growled “Give me that!” before promptly smashing it over the head of the Fed who had Donut pinned beneath him.

The Fed slumped sideways onto the floor, and Sarge tossed the remaining pieces of the table off to the side with a huff.

“Now that’s how you properly weaponize a piece of furniture.”

“Sarge!” Wash marched over to the Red, stepping over the balled-up form of Private Mellor in what he hoped was a dignified fashion. “We’re supposed to be _stopping_ the fight; not contributing to it!”

“Do you see anyone still fighting, son?”

Wash didn’t, and he couldn’t stop the small noise of frustration that rose in the back of his throat because there were other ways to break up a fight that _didn’t involve taking sides and injuring the people you were supposed to be working with_. He looked over to Corporal Soto for support, only to find her covering the visor of her helmet with both hands as she shook her head and muttered darkly.

Sarge puffed himself up and stated, with his typical grandiosity, “Then mission accomplished. Now who wants to tell me what all this hullabaloo is about?”

Everyone still conscious started talking at once, growing louder and louder as they tried to be heard over the others. The situation was quickly spiraling back out of control and Wash had just begun scanning the area for something he could weaponize when the loudest foghorn he had ever had the displeasure of hearing blared through his radio.

When the ringing in his ears had subsided, Wash looked up from where he had curled up protectively on the floor to find a soldier striding towards him, her helmet off and a foghorn in one hand.

She came to a stop in front of Sarge (who was somehow still standing) and surveyed the carnage her sound assault had wrought.

Sarge beamed and slapped the other soldier on the shoulder. “Sergeant Patel! Excellent timing!”

“Sarge.” The Sergeant looked over to where Wash was hastily standing up. “Agent Washington. You boys care to tell me what’s been going on here?”

Sarge shrugged. “Dunno. We just got here.”

“I see.” Sergeant Patel scanned the crowd. Her gaze settled upon the soldier still protectively curled up next to Wash. “Private Mellor!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Mellor shot up to attention with significantly more grace than Wash had managed moments earlier.

The Sergeant crossed her arms over her chest, her expression neutrally stern. “Were you present when the fight began?” she asked, slightly shifting the foghorn so that it rested more securely in the crook of her elbow.

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Report!”

Private Mellor answered promptly and without hesitation, her gaze fixed on a distant point past the Sergeant's shoulder. “Private Donut, Private Wright, and I were in the mess hall for breakfast when Lieutenant Smithsonian and his friends began to heckle Private Donut.”

“And where is Lieutenant Smithsonian now?”

“In the garbage disposal, ma’am,” Mellor replied without a twitch in her composure.

Sergeant Patel, on the other hand, looked quite shocked. “How did he get in there?”

“Donut threw him in, ma’am.”

Patel schooled her features back into stern neutrality. “So the fight began near the garbage disposal,” she surmised, already beginning to visualize how the lead-up to the fight had played out.

Before Wash could correct the Sergeant, Private Mellor replied, “No, ma’am. It started closer to the entrance.”

“And moved near the garbage disposal during the course of the fight.”

Mellor’s stance never wavered as she remained at full attention. “No, ma’am. This is the farthest the fight penetrated into the room.”

Sergeant Patel’s eyes widened, and she looked away to scan the crowd of nearby soldiers standing at uneasy attention. Her gaze soon settled upon Donut's distinctly-armored person, and she stared into his visor, directly at where his eyes would be.

“You threw a Lieutenant into the garbage disposal,” the Sergeant said, her tone completely flat. “From across the room.”

Donut crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. “He said that I threw like a girl and bet that I couldn’t throw him more than a foot.”

Sarge slapped his leg and chuckled. “Well that’s a bet he certainly lost,” he said proudly. “What’d he bet?”

Wash sighed. “Sarge...”

“What I would like to know is why none of you stopped this incident from escalating.” Sergeant Patel looked pointedly at Mellor and Wright.

“We tried, but they wouldn’t listen to us because we were Privates,” said Wright, his tone a mix of frustration and remorse.

“They followed us when we tried leaving the mess,” explained Mellor.

“And why didn’t you call for assistance?”

Corporal Soto stepped forward. “They did, but by the time I arrived, the fight was in earnest. I immediately left to find Sarge and Agent Washington.”

The Sergeant turned to look at Wash and Sarge. “And you arrived on-scene shortly before I did, correct?”

“Correct,” said Wash at the same time Sarge said “Correctamundo!”

“I see.” Sergeant Patel tapped her foot against the concrete of the floor as she considered the situation. “Has anyone reported this incident to Commander Ross?” She looked briefly around the room. When no one answered in the affirmative, she growled and declared, “Then I shall. Corporal Soto, get me a list of all the participants involved in this fight. Now where is medical? We have at least one unconscious soldier here. And somebody get Lieutenant Smithsonian out of that garbage disposal!” The Sergeant glared at the crowd of soldiers surrounding her. “The rest of you are dismissed!”

In the ensuing scramble of soldiers, Wash snagged Mellor and Wright with a firm hand on their respective shoulders. “Before you go, I have a few questions.”

“Of course, sir!” they chorused, Wright more nervously than Mellor.

“What did the heckling consist of?”

“I don’t remember the specifics, sir, but they were making fun of Donut’s armor color.”

“And questioning his abilities as a soldier,” Wright supplied, anger making his voice harsh.

“And how did Donut react to it?”

Wright took a calming breath before replying, “It didn’t bother him much at first.”

“It wasn’t until after he’d corrected them multiple times about his armor being a lightish red that Donut began getting annoyed.”

“That was when I suggested leaving.”

“At which point, they followed you.” When neither soldier contradicted him, Wash asked, “Were there any physical aspects to the heckling?”

“Not until Lieutenant Lenka flicked his visor.”

“I thought she’d backhanded him.”

Mellor looked at her squadmate. “Is that why you punched her?”

Wright’s shoulders slumped as he crossed his arms over his stomach. “Yes.”

“Let me guess,” Wash said drily, “that was when the fighting started.”

“Yes,” they replied, Wright morose and Mellor resigned.

Wash nodded. “I think I understand what happened here. What I don’t understand is why Donut is so upset.” The latter was said more to himself as Wash watched Donut stalk out of the mess hall, Sarge following close behind.

“Um. Sir?”

Wash turned his attention back to Donut’s escorts. “Yes, Wright?”

“I don’t think the fight is the only reason he’s upset. He told us during breakfast that he’d lost some important things in the move between bases.”

“One of them was a birthday present. We were trying to cheer him up when the Lieutenants came over.”

“I see. Did he say what the present was?”

“Not specifically.”

“Only that it was from Simmons,” Wright added, his tone helpfully hopeful.

Wash hummed thoughtfully to himself; it sounded like Donut had been having a bad morning even before the fight. “Thank you for sharing that information. You’re dismissed.”

“Sir!” The two soldiers saluted as Wash turned away to locate the Reds.

He found Sarge talking to Donut just outside the mess hall, a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

Donut stood stiffly, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, pointedly not looking at his commanding officer.

Sarge sighed heavily and patted Donut’s pauldron as Wash approached. “I know you're pretty particular about your nomenclature, son, but we're all on the same team here. Well. Mostly. Washington isn't very Red. More like a lightish black doused in sunshine.”

“Sarge...”

Sarge muttered a quick something about sneaky Blues before continuing on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Point being, you should be saving up that arm for when we charge in guns ablazing to rescue Simmons and the sad excuses for soldiers known as Blue Team.”

“Sarge!”

The Red sergeant finally looked at Wash. “What?”

Wash sighed. “I'd ask you to stop insulting my team, but that's beside the point.”

“Point being?” Sarge asked gruffly.

“Donut, I think it would be best if you went back to our quarters and stayed there until Sarge and I finish settling things.”

Donut shrugged off Sarge’s hand and glared at Wash as he grumbled, “They started it.”

“We know, son, but Washington does have a point. It'll be easier to get this matter squared away if you're not around to stir the pot.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Donut snapped before storming off in the direction of their shared quarters.

Wash watched as the light-red soldier stomped through the hall, concern growing with each display of Donut’s uncharacteristically bad mood. “Is he okay?” Wash asked his Red counterpart as the glare Donut directed at a soldier caused the other to trip while scrambling out of the way.

“Who? The guy in the disposal?” Sarge shrugged. “He's peachy. Literally. He's coated in them. Too bad they're all as rotten as he is.”

“No. I meant Donut. I've never seen him so...” It took Wash a moment to recall the appropriate word. “... _recalcitrant_ before.”

Sarge waved Wash off. “Eh. He's just sulking. He'll be back to his usual buoyant self as soon as wine and cheese hour floats around.”

“If you say so.” Wash had doubts, but he figured that Sarge knew Donut better than he did.

Sarge turned back towards the mess hall and rolled up some imaginary sleeves. “Now the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the sooner I can get back to my robotics. Make way! Red Army coming through!”

“So you're a one-man army now?” Wash quipped as he followed in the Red Leader's wake.

Sarge laughed. “Always have been.”

* * *

 

When Wash returned to their shared quarters that evening, a meeting having run short (for once), he found Donut sitting on the bottom bunk, chin in his hands and a despondent sag to his shoulders. The younger man didn’t even glance towards the door as Wash entered the room, and Wash realized with growing unease that Sarge had been very wrong about the state of Donut’s spirits.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Wash approached the younger man and said, “Hello, Donut.”

Donut sighed, the breath rushing out of him with the force of a punch to the chest. “Hello, Wash,” he replied, his tone underlined with misery.

Wash exhaled slowly and tried to sound casual as he asked, “How are you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad.”

“Yeah.”

Wash stood there for a long moment, debating the best course of action before he slowly sat down on the bunk next to Donut, making sure there was enough space that they wouldn’t bump elbows accidentally without being (he hoped) too far away to not be comforting. “Is there something you _do_ want to talk about?”

Donut flopped down sideways so that his head rested in Wash’s lap, his usual flair for the dramatic conspicuously absent. “No...” Donut began before making a strangled noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Wash awkwardly patted Donut’s shoulder and prayed he got the message to continue. Wash didn’t quite trust his voice at the moment.

Donut sighed heavily and laid with his head in Wash's lap for several long minutes. “It’s just...” he said suddenly before trailing off with a noise of frustration. Donut took a deep breath before continuing, his fingers twining and twisting all the while. “You ever have one of those days where _everything_ goes wrong and _nothing_ you do makes anything better?”

Wash couldn’t help the bitter bark of laughter. “Yeah.”

“Well.” Donut’s hands stilled. “Today was even _worse_.”

“There’s worse?”

Donut sighed and tilted his head to look sidelong at his impromptu pillow. “Yes, Wash, and it’s when _nothing_ goes right and _everything_ you do makes everything worse.”

“Ah. One of _those_ days.”

Donut nodded into Wash’s lap.

Wash hummed and found himself running his fingers through Donut’s hair. He stopped and said, tone wry, “And it doesn’t help when everyone around you is also on your case for every little thing.”

Donut frowned and buried his face in Wash's lap. With a huff, the younger soldier muttered, “They kept saying my armor was pink and calling me names like ‘Pinkie Pie’ and ‘Princess Peach’, even after I told them my armor was _lightish red_.”

Wash hummed again. “What I don’t understand is how Sarge does that all the time and it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

Donut’s hand flopped limply at the wrist as he waved dismissively. “That’s because it’s _different_ with Sarge. He only gives nicknames to people he likes.”

“Huh. Really.” Wash didn’t even try to keep the skepticism from his tone.

Donut didn’t seem to notice, simply replying, “Really.”

So Wash shook his head and said, “I just find it hard to believe that ‘dirtbag’ is a term of affection.”

Donut laughed and rolled over to look up at Wash. “That’s because it isn’t, O Sleepless Beauty.”

Wash wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. In the back of his brain, a long-dormant sense started tingling with indistinct danger.

Donut grinned up at Wash, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous gleam. “And did you know,” he began, tone conspiratorial, “the more nicknames he has for you, the more he likes you?” The younger man looked at Wash expectantly.

The danger sense was itching now, so Wash huffed and said, “We are not discussing this.”

Donut’s eyes were opened wide with false innocence. “What are we not discussing? Is there something you aren’t telling me, Wash?”

“Let me think.” Wash was trying to come up with something suitably sarcastic when he caught sight of the time in the corner of his HUD. “Why yes! There _is_ something.”

“Yes?” Donut smiled like a child receiving a gift and knowing it was exactly what they’d requested.

Wash was happy to disappoint. “The Club meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago.”

Donut looked shocked and promptly sat up. “Really? But, Lopez isn’t here, and he’s _never_ late.”

As soon as the words left Donut's mouth, a robotic screech of Spanish profanity could be heard echoing down the hall.

“Me puso abajo, loco viejo! Tengo un trabajo que hacer! Un trabajo que me gusta, pero programado que haga todos los trabajos que me asignan, por lo que no tengo otra opción!”

“Oh, Lopez, you are such a kidder. Ain't nothing wrong with war movies, and you know it.”

“¿Me estás tomando el pelo? Usted me agarró para traerme a esta sala, sala de estar presente donde ya iba a? Y me hizo tarde!? Se suponía que debía estar aquí hace cinco minutos!”

“Now there's no need to be getting nasty there, Lopez. Just because you don't appreciate the manliness of tears, sweat, and blood being shed over ideological technicalities doesn't make the movie any less great. If anything, it makes the movie a perfect case study in how to boost your own machismo! Which you're a bit lacking in, son. We need to work on that.”

“Te odio. Tanto.”

The door whooshed open to reveal Sarge, standing proudly with Lopez slung over a shoulder. “There you are, Agent Washington! I've been looking all over the base for you! And Donut's here too! Excellent! Movie night can now commence! I was thinking _Father Goose_ or _Operation Petticoat_ tonight. I know how much you like that pink submarine, Donut.”

Donut's face twisted up into an expression of pure misery. He sniffled.

“Erm.” Sarge put down Lopez. “Was it something I said?”

Tears began rolling down Donut's face as he trembled with the effort to remain quiet. Wash sat frozen, unsure what to do, even as he was inappropriately impressed by how Donut's mascara refused to run.

“Dios mío.”

Lopez’s comment snapped Wash back to the present dilemma. “Sarge, if I could have a word with you.” Wash got up from the bed and shuffled Sarge over into Lopez’s usual corner, glancing nervously over his shoulder at where Donut sat crying on the bed. “You know that today is Tuesday.”

“Of course I do!”

“Then did you know that Donut attends meetings of the Musical Lovers Club every Tuesday at this time?”

“Of course I did! But Donut's the only member here, and everyone knows you can't have meetings with only one member, which is why all the recent meetings have been canceled!” Sarge paused. “Oh. Guess he didn’t need to be reminded about that.”

“No, he didn’t. Besides, he isn't the only member.”

Sarge snorted. “Lopez doesn't count.”

“I wasn't talking about Lopez.”

“What.” Sarge’s helmet tilted down in a squint and he huffed. “I shoulda known. You always did have terrible taste in Westerns.”

“And you have terrible taste in comedy.”

“Why I—!”

Wash shushed Sarge with a hand over his visor. “But that's not important right now.”

Sarge muttered to himself about backhanded Blue-talk before asking, “Then what do you think is?”

“From what I’ve heard, Donut has been having a really bad day.”

“And what are you expecting _us_ to do about it? The day’s practically over! A done deal!”

“Well, Doc and Donut are always saying not to repress things, and that talking about things makes them easier to deal with...”

Sarge looked at Wash, his posture that of one completely unimpressed with the suggested course of action. “You're proposing that we talk feelings.”

Wash stopped and thought about it. Considered the alternatives.

There weren’t any better ones.

“Yes,” he said at length. “I suppose I am.”

“We both don't do the talking about feelings thing.”

“We have to try. For Donut.”

Sarge sighed, his rigid posture relaxing into something a bit less confrontational. “Welp. It could be worse. At least Donut gives points for effort.” With that, Sarge shrugged off any sense of doubt he may or may not have had and headed over to Donut, clapping a hand onto the younger man’s shoulder.

“So, I heard I crashed a Club meeting tonight. Didn’t realize you’d been recruiting members, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering you had half the canyon as members back when we were bitter enemies.”

Donut wiped away some tears with the heels of his palms. Sarge handed him a handkerchief. Donut took it without a word.

Seeing as how Sarge’s approach was ineffective, Wash sat back down on the bed and tried a different tack. “I heard from Mellor and Wright that you lost some things in the move.”

Donut blew his nose, the sound a wet honk with a bubbly finish. His next breath was a whistling snorkle, and he coughed a little to clear his throat before saying, his voice thick, “I lost Simmons’ present, and also the scarf I was making for you, and the helmet cozy I was making for Lopez, and a lot of other things and then those jerks in the mess hall kept making fun of my armor and calling me names, and all I wanted was to eat breakfast in peace, but I brewed the coffee _all wrong_ and my toast was too dry and they were all out of the strawberry jelly—they only had strawberry _jam_ —so I had to use the grape jelly instead, but those jerks wouldn’t leave me alone so I didn’t even get to finish breakfast because I had to _leave_ , and then there was the _fight_ , and I am _not sorry_ for throwing him into the trash because _he deserved it_ , even though I had to spend the _entire day_ cooped up in this room without _anything_ to decorate it with because _I lost it all_ during the move, and then I had the wrong cheese for my wine and the crackers had gone stale and then, just when I think something is about to go alright for once today, _the Club meeting is ruined!_ ”

Donut buried his face in his hands and breathed heavily.

Wash and Sarge exchanged looks with each other and Lopez, each silently asking the other for ideas on what to do, before Wash patted Donut gently on the back and said, “That’s… a lot. Of things.”

Donut sniffled in reply.

“But, um, the day isn’t over yet?”

“That’s right!” said Sarge, full bombast ahead. “We can still have that Club meeting!”

“And I have just the movie,” said Wash before Sarge tried suggesting something too… much for them to watch. “Have you ever seen a musical Western before?”

“Only a few. I don’t really like Westerns.” Donut rolled his eyes. “Spy movies are _way_ cooler.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like this one,” Wash said, grinning daggers at Sarge as he sent Lopez the video file for _Paint Your Wagon_.

Sarge’s silently indignant glare as the title screen projected on the wall made Wash’s night a lot better.

By the end of the movie, Elizabeth was Donut’s spirit animal, Lopez had tried to escape twice, and Sarge had spent the entire runtime haranguing Wash into scheduling regular (and proper) movie nights with him, only to be thwarted at every turn by scheduling conflicts. In the end, it was Donut, freshly restored to his cheerful self, that proposed consolidating movie nights with Club meetings, even going to far as to set up a schedule based on genre (Lopez had the last Tuesday of every month unanimously reserved for telenovela nights).

And so it was that, with everything settled and dawn fast approaching, everyone went to bed, if not actually satisfied with the arrangement, at least not devastatingly displeased by it.

And while everyone else slept, Wash planned his next choice of musical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donut is one of those rare characters that is both genuinely nice and unrepentantly violent. And as fun as nice!Donut is to write, violent!Donut doesn’t get nearly as much appreciation.
> 
> Alas, this is the most non-choreographed violence we’ll see in this entire fic.
> 
> For here, at long last, we end Act 1:  
> The players in place, the setup is done.  
> Now we can get to the actual fun.  
> The main production’s finally begun!
> 
> As of 2017. Because I am a slow writer and I need to rebuild my chapter buffer. And fix some continuity snarls (which if you’ve noticed any, please let me know; I'm kinda shocked at how I forgot about some pretty important canon details >.>).
> 
> I also signed up for the RvB Big Bang, so there's that to look forward to too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With acts of passive-aggression initiated and escalating between Wash and Donut, the first official meeting of the Musical Lovers Club provides one former Freelancer an excellent introduction to the concept of frenemapanionship.

“I see the two of you have developed a healthy antagonism for one another,” Sarge said as he dropped his tray on the table across from Wash.

“I have no idea what you could be talking about.” Wash replied before taking a sip of his coffee; it needed more sugar.

Sarge huffed and pulled the sugar out of Wash’s reach, ignoring the former Freelancer’s annoyed glare. “I’m no naive nancy goat, son,” the Red Leader said, fiddling with the neatly-stacked packets.

Wash elected to ignore the other man in favor of drinking his somewhat sweetened beverage. Close enough would have to be good enough, and his coffee was going to get cold long before Wash ever got a hold of the sugar again, knowing Sarge's penchant for rambling speeches.

Sarge huffed again and flicked a packet of sugar at the breakfast line before crossing his arms on the table and fixing Wash with a visored stare. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how you and Donut have been sneaking around, pranking one another these past few days? Especially after those itch-a-matastic wool socks addressed to you appeared on my bunk?”

Wash tried not to choke on his coffee and mostly succeeded. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“A problem? Problem?!” Sarge guffawed. “Not at all, son! A little tickle is nothing if it means my toes stay nice and toasty! To be frank, I'm proud of the both of you!”

Wash put his coffee safely down on the table. “What.”

“The two of you are finally adopting the oldest of the Red and Blue traditions! It warms an old man's heart to see the young ones keeping the old ways alive.” Sarge sniffed and wiped an imaginary tear off his visor. At least, Wash though it was imaginary. It was always hard to tell with Sarge.

“To tell you the truth,” the Red sergeant surged on, “I was worried about the two of you, especially friendly-with-everyone-including-Blues Donut. I never thought I’d see the day he’d initiate aggressions against a Blue.”

Wash looked off to the side, the breakfast line suddenly looking _very_ interesting. “Well, I _did_ shoot him…”

“D’oh! Of course!” Sarge facepalmed. “I should’ve seen it then! In hindsight, that was the start of your best frenemapanionship.”

Wash looked away from the breakfast line (moving at near-glacial speeds this early in the morning due to a lack of exciting options) to shoot his Red counterpart a quizzical look. “Frenema-what?”

“Frenemapanions,” Sarge repeated, as if the word were self-evident in meaning.

Wash stared blankly back.

The Red Leader sighed and grumbled something about Freelancer training sorely lacking in the basics of interpersonal communicationing before explaining, “You’re simultaneously friends, enemies, and constant companions. Ergo, frenemapanions!”

Wash rolled his eyes. “We’re not _enemies_ , Sarge.”

“Heh heh heh.” Sarge leaned across the table to poke Wash in the chest, just over his heart. “You just keep telling yourself that while engaging in open hostilities, son.”

The Ex-Freelancer crossed his arms and leaned back, out of Sarge's reach. “They’re not open.”

“But they _are_ hostile!”

Wash could hear the grin in his counterpart’s voice and sighed; Sarge had him there.

“...only a _little_ ,” he begrudgingly admitted. It wasn't like Wash was trying to actually _hurt_ Donut. Just get even.

Sarge sat back down, arms crossed over his chest in self-satisfaction. “Like I said, frenemapanions.”

Wash took a more proper sitting position and contemplated his coffee. “Then that would make us frenemapanions too.”

Sarge's helmet tilted at a considering angle. “...Maybe,” he grunted after a while.

Wash raised an eyebrow and looked the other man in the eye (or would have without the visor in the way). In any case, his skepticism was clearly conveyed with the unimpressed flatness of his “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Sarge echoed, as deliberately unhelpful as ever.

Wash sighed and took the bait. “Care to tell me what you mean by ‘maybe’?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

“Nope. That’d be telling.”

“Sarge...” Wash pinched the bridge of his nose. It was much too early in the day to deal with Sarge's contrived confoundings (and they called _him_ cryptic).

The Red Leader huffed. “You’re smart (for a Blue). Figure it out on your own!”

“Figure _what_ out?!”

Sarge chuckled. “You’ll figure it out. By the way, I hear _The Civil War_ is a respectable musical.” And then Red sergeant pushed away from the table and strolled out of the mess, leaving Wash to wonder just what it was he was supposed to figure out, and why was Sarge's untouched breakfast suddenly right in front of him?

As Wash poked at the now-soggy toast and reconstituted eggs on the tray, he sighed and figured that, at the least, he now knew what musical Sarge wanted to see.

* * *

 

1900 hours.

The first official meeting of the Musical Lovers Club since Donut’s departure from Blood Gulch.

Also the perfect chance for Wash to get even.

As Club President, the inaugural musical was Donut’s pick.

Wash had been hedging his bets on _Spies Are Forever_ , considering the younger man’s penchant for all things spy.

As the scene opened with a Russian lackey punching a captive and then limping off to nurse his bruised hand, Wash didn’t even try to hide his grin, settling into the inflatable mattresses Donut had configured into a couch with Lopez’s anchored assistance and helping himself to the bowl of popcorn in Sarge’s lap.

It wasn’t until Barb contacted the agents that Donut spoke up, leaning around Sarge so that Wash could hear him whisper, “My favorite part of this song is after this!”

Wash finished swallowing his mouthful of popcorn before conspiratorially whispering back, “Mine, too.”

Donut gasped, happiness lending his eyes an extra sparkle. “Really? We should _totally_ sing it together!”

Seeing Donut so genuinely happy made Wash almost reconsider his plans for vengeance. “I don’t think that would be a good idea...” The former Freelancer fiddled with some un-popped kernels in his hand. “I haven’t sung in a long time.”

Donut laughed and placed a reassuring hand on Wash’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be _fine_. Just have fun with it! That’s all that _really_ matters.”

“Well—” Donut shushed Wash with a finger over his lips.

“Nuh-uh! I won’t hear any excuses for not having fun.”

Wash snorted and returned Donut’s smile as the younger man pulled away. “If you _insist_.”

“I do!”

“In that case...” Wash took a deep breath as music swelled to the foreground once more, counting the beats until...

“ _ONCE A SPY—_ ” he belted out in the most obnoxiously off-key yodel he could manage, closing his eyes until he was _just_ peeking through his lashes.

Sarge jumped, popcorn spilling everywhere as he went to cover his ears. “What in tarnation—?!” the Red Leader growled, glaring at Wash.

“ _—ALWAYS A SPY!_ ” Wash nudged Sarge towards a quietly cringing Donut, disguising the motion with a warbling, “ _FOREVER! FOREVER!_ ”

As the realization dawned on Sarge, the man looked torn between approval and agony.

Wash tried not to smile too broadly as he continued belting out lyrics, drawing inspiration from the stray cats he used to feed as a kid. “ _THE WARMEST HELLO TO THE COLDEST GOODBYE!_ ”

”Eso es lo peor de canto que he Escuchado en mi vida.” Lopez said, at his regular volume.

“Lopez! That isn’t very nice,” Donut hissed at the Projector, attempting to disguise the reprimand with a sneeze.

“ _REMEMBER! REMEMBER!_ ”

¿Por qué te importa?

“ _SPIES NEVER DIE._ ”

” Se está infligiendo dolor físico en usted.”

“ _SPIES ARE FOREV—_ ”

“I mean, sure, his technique _could_ use work,” Donut conceded, his voice still valiantly lowered, “but he’s got enthusiasm in spades, and it’s the heart that counts!” The usual pep in Donut’s voice was noticeably strained.

“ _—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_ ”

”Sigue diciéndote eso. No seré ble escuchar ustedes, ya que he-apagar mis entradas auditivas. Clic. Ah. Hermosa silencio.”

“ _—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!_ ”

When Donut remained silent rather than repeat the “spies are forever” line with the characters, Wash made a show of looking around Sarge, his best kicked puppy expression on his face.

“That bad?”

“No!” Donut flushed as he scrambled for an inoffensive explanation. “I was just... surprised.”

Sarge harrumphed. “I always knew you had a pair of lungs on you, but I never imagined they’d be applied in that manner.”

“Oh.” Sarge chuckled at Wash's apparent confusion, so the Ex-Freelancer shrugged a shoulder and said, “Thanks?”

Donut laughed nervously.

Wash smiled at the younger man. “Well, don’t let me stop you from singing along. You, too, Sarge.”

Sarge huffed, inspecting the remaining contents of the popcorn bowl. “I’ll pass.”

“I don’t think I can compare to—”

Wash reached over to place a finger on Donut’s lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be _fine_ ,” he said, echoing Donut’s earlier encouragement. “Just have fun with it! That’s all that really matters, right?”

Donut sighed, defeated, and settled back against the couch. “There’s no arguing against that.”

“Nope.”

Donut jolted back up, grim determination on his face has he declared, “But we are not singing the Nazi song.”

“Of course not.”

“There’s a Nazi song?” Sarge asked, looking incredulously at Donut. “Aren’t they the antithesis of everything you stand for, son?”

Wash helped himself to what little popcorn remained in the bowl, taking the time to thoroughly chew and swallow before replying, “You’ll understand when you see it. Now here comes the most important part of the scene.”

And as Sarge grumbled about the lost popcorn and Donut pouted over having his own arguments turned against him, Wash smugly settled in to enjoy the show.

* * *

 

Donut got back at Wash that same night with a surprise showing of _Cats_. “Memories” had always made Wash misty-eyed when he’d watched the musical as a kid, but after everything he’d been through with Project Freelancer and the Reds and Blues, it physically _hurt_ how much he could _relate_ to the song.

As Wash wetly hiccuped into one of Sarge’s handy hankies, too congested to warble along with the reprise of “Memories” playing onscreen, the former Freelancer conceded the round to Donut and found himself reconsidering the concept of frenemapanionship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Remember how I said at the end of Chapter 5 that the setup was all done? Well, in the months-long hiatus I took off to build up a buffer for this fic, things changed. Some scenes expanded. Others contracted. Real life wound up busting my butt and taking out my Big Bang. x_x
> 
> Point being, we have another two chapters of setup to go before we reach the really fun stuff that got me wanting to write this behemoth.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> P.S. [You can watch Spies Are Forever 100% legally free over on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?list=PLlF0gFzOX4tD1KJ5ZEnvhD55Qhnz-K0X2&v=vd3aJl930YE)
> 
> You’re welcome~!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to “Gossip Hour with Donut”! Today’s episode boasts special guest appearances by Agent Washington, Sarge, Lopez, and Doctor Grey.

Wednesday night, immediately after Wash finished dinner and exited the mess with the evening shift, Donut ran over and latched onto the former Freelancer.

“I’m scared, Wash! Hold me!”

“What is it now?” Wash sighed, shifting Donut's grip from around his waist to his left arm so he could walk (relatively) unimpeded.

Donut linked his elbow with the former Freelancer’s and dramatically pressed the side of his face into Wash’s shoulder. The light-red soldier's eyes were wide and watery as he stage whispered, “I overheard Locus singing ‘Jellicle Cats’.”

Wash stopped dead in his tracks, positive he'd misheard. “What.”

Donut pressed the side of his face even harder into Wash's shoulder, closing his eyes and heaving a dramatic sigh before bemoaning, “That’s not even the scariest part!”

Wash looked down at Donut disbelievingly. “It gets scarier.”

“Yeah!” Donut sprang back into a proper standing position, his arm still linked around Wash’s. “He was scary good! You don’t think we should—”

“No.” Absolutely _not_.

“Oh, good.” Donut sighed with relief and leaned against Wash again. “That would make club meetings _so_ awkward. By the way, Wash,” the younger man began with a growing grin, “do you have anything scheduled for the next hour?”

“No.” Wash resumed walking, an inkling as to why Donut had sought him out coming to mind. “I have a break in between meetings at the moment. Why?”

“Well, if you’ve got nothing pressing to do, then you should join me for wine and cheese hour!”

Wash snorted. “Wine and cheese hour.”

“Yup! I hold it every day at 1700 sharp!”

“I don’t know, Donut...” Wash drew out the pause between sentences into a moment of dramatic thought. “I was planning on training.”

Donut gasped, horrified. “No! Wash! You can’t be serious!”

“Can’t be serious about what?” Wash asked, innocently. “Training?”

“Noooooo.” Donut looked positively appalled. “Not relaxing during your free time! If you don’t take the time to relax, it’ll do murder on your complexion! I’m talking things like eczema, premature wrinkling, varicose veins, _skin cancer!”_

“I don’t have anything else—” Donut’s finger was suddenly on Wash’s visor, directly over his lips.

“Nope! That decides it! You are coming with me, Mister, and we are going to have a nice, relaxing chat over some Sauvignon Blanc and Gruyere.”

And that was how Wash found himself in their shared quarters a few minutes later, seated next to Donut on the bed with a plate of cheese and two glasses of wine on the folding table in front of them.

“Soooooo, Wash,” Donut drawled, pushing a glass of wine towards Wash, “how have you been since the last club meeting?”

Wash took the glass to be polite, but couldn't resist pointing out, “That was just last night.”

“Which was practically a whole day ago, and a lot can happen in a day!” chirped Donut, not missing a beat as he snagged a slice of cheese for himself and one of the wine glasses. “So how have you been?”

“Busy?”

“Oooh! With what?” the younger man asked, sitting back more comfortably and taking a sip of his wine.

Wash shrugged. “Drafting up training regimens, mainly. The troops here are fairly disciplined, however—”

“Bo~ring!” Donut sang, flopping backward onto the bunk, the wine in his glass sloshing alarmingly close to spilling. “You’ve got to have something more juicy than that! Like, what did you do the last time you had time off?”

“Um...” The last time Wash had had time off was during the mandatory bed rest period, shortly after figuring out that the Feds weren’t their enemies, so... “Sleep?”

Donut sat up just to get a better angle on his unimpressed stare.

Wash stared back, impassive.

Donut sighed heavily and finished off his glass. He poured himself another and looked pointedly at Wash’s untouched one. “Well, there’s no time like the present to have fun!”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Donut let loose a long-suffering sigh. “You're really bad at this whole relaxing thing, you know?”

“Well, I don't see much reason _to_ relax right now.” Not while half of his team was elsewhere, being pressured to fight in a war that wasn't their own.

Donut shook his head and finished nibbling his cheese. “ _Skin cancer_ ,” the younger man chimed, handing Wash a thick slice of cheese and sending another pointed look towards the untouched wine in Wash’s glass.

Wash sighed and took a sip of his wine. It was actually fairly okay. For wine. The cheese, though. The cheese was the best he'd had. Ever. Of all time.

Wash took his time to savor the delicious nuttiness of the Gruyere before asking, “What am I supposed to do?”

Donut beamed. “Okay, so, ask me a question!”

“About what?”

“Anything!”

“Like what?”

The younger man looked at his glass morosely before downing the remaining wine in one drawn-out gulp. “Wow,” Donut said, pouring himself another glass, “you’re _really_ bad at this.”

“And in other news, Sarge is Red.”

Donut snorted. “Okay, okay. Any burning questions you have about me or anyone on Red Team? It can be about Sarge~”

Wash took a sip of his wine and another nibble of cheese to buy some time as he considered his options, as well as which ones Donut was most likely to answer truthfully. “There is _one_ thing…”

Donut’s face lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. “Yes?”

“Why does Sarge hate Grif?”

The younger man looked thrown off for a second, but quickly recovered, his grin turning mischievous. “No one knows for sure, but _I_ have a theory.” He shuffled closer to Wash, wriggling like a cat about to pounce. “You know how Simmons sees Sarge as a father figure?”

“Yes.” Though Wash could only wonder at why.

“And you know how Grif and Simmons are practically inseparable?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Tucker and I are pretty positive that they’re married.”

Wash took another sip and nibble and tried not to think about how Tucker would be presenting all his evidence right now if he were here. Instead, he chose to focus on the real issue here. Namely, “But what does that have to do with Sarge?”

“Well,” drawled Donut, his voice taking on that patient walkthrough tone of someone who sees something as obvious that you should also be seeing as obvious, “Sarge is a true father to his men, particularly to Simmons!”

And then it clicked.

“Wait.” Wash put his glass down on the table and turned to face Donut more directly. “Is this going where I think it’s going?”

“Well, Wash, if your kid hooked up with someone as sleazy as Grif, wouldn’t _you_ take a shotgun to him?”

Wash half laughed as he shook his head. “That makes too much sense. There has got to be another reason.”

“Oh, I don't know, Wash.” Donut’s grin grew more blindingly toothy by the sentence. “Sarge is a very simple man when you get deep down inside his heart. He loves blood, violence, and playing house, and he hates insubordination. And Grif’s first act upon arriving at Red Base was to be insubordinately lazy and frame Simmons!”

“Really?” Wash asked, completely unsurprised but playing along.

“Yup! Simmons told me _allllll_ about it during our last wine and cheese hour.” Donut sighed sadly. “That was so long ago. Simmons always did have the juiciest gossip, too. Do you think he misses me as much as I miss him?”

There were tears glittering in the corners of Donut’s eyes, and Wash was _not prepared for this_ , so he shifted in his seat and aimed for a reassuring tone of voice as he said, “I'm sure he does.”

Donut sighed again, “But does he know it? He's even worse at the feelings thing than you are. At least _you_ know what you're feeling.”

“Thanks,” Wash deadpanned, pretty sure that the backhanded compliment had been intentional in its backhandedness.

Donut patted Wash on the shoulder. “You're getting there. But Simmons? I love him dearly as the neurotic older brother I never knew I needed, but he can be so _dense_ when it comes to noticing his own feelings! It took him _years_ to realize that he loved me like the little sister he never knew he had!”

Wash blinked. “But you're not—?”

Donut cut off his question with a headshake and firm, “No.”

“Then why?”

Donut sighed and shot Wash a small smile. “Simmons has a lot of unresolved issues that he’s been avoiding for a very long time.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

The younger man shrugged. “I guess. I mean, it’s not very nice to make an issue out of someone else’s issues.”

“But that doesn’t make it _okay_ ,” Wash replied, his voice pitching up higher than he intended.

Donut's smile grew larger and more genuine. “Aw!” he cooed, eyes sparkling over the rim of his wine glass. “Are you upset about it _for_ me? That’s sweet!”

Before Wash had a chance to respond, Donut leaned back against a bedpost and waved his hand in dismissal of the non-issue.

“But enough about me!” the younger man chirped and swirled the remaining wine in his glass. “Let's talk about _you!_ ”

“What _about_ me?” Wash asked, taking a solid bite of his fifth (or was it sixth) slice of cheese. It was a tasty way to bide his time while answering the probing questions to come.

“Well...” Donut beamed at Wash, his eyes sparkling with what Wash was positive was mischief. “What if I told you that Locus has a crush on you?”

Wash almost choked on his cheese. “WHAT.”

“Just hear me out!” Donut said, reaching a hand out to rest on Wash's shoulder, preventing the former Freelancer from rudely escaping. “He follows you _everywhere_ , you’re the only one he calls by name, you’re the only one _he_ initiates conversations with, and shortly after you met, he knocked you up _so hard_ you woke up from a _coma!_ ”

Wash froze. When Donut put it that way, it all made too much sense, even as every fiber of his being screamed at the wrongness. His mind raced as it leapt between the evidence and implications and impossibilities and sheer _horror_ , and the next thing Wash knew, he was lying supine on the floor, Sarge slapping his cheek while Lopez hovered overhead. He could hear Donut sniffling off to the side.

“Quit your sobbing, you crybaby. He’s coming around.”

At that moment, the door _whooshed_ open and Doctor Grey entered Wash’s line of sight.

“What happened here?”

“I’m sorry!” wailed Donut. “I had no idea he was such a lightweight!”

Wash facepalmed and left his hand to rest over his eyes.

Donut didn't seem to notice, as he continued to embarrass Wash. “It was just one glass, and he only drank half! I didn't even know you could get drunk on that little, much less blackout drunk!”

Well, Wash mused, at least the distress in his voice sounded genuine, so the embarrassment was _probably_ unintentional.

He heard the tap of a medical scanner against armor as Doctor Grey crossed her arms.

“I highly doubt that wine was the sole contributing factor to this spell of swooning.” Doctor Grey sighed. “When was the last time you slept, Wash?”

“Two days ago,” Sarge answered before Wash could come up with a plausible story.

Wash glared at the Red Leader from between his middle and ring fingers. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, ever since you revealed your penchant for lurking beneath my mattress, I've made it a habit to conduct regular Bluegieman checks throughout the night to ensure that you don't go violating the International Dibs Protocol you so disdain. And I didn't see you anywhere in this room last night after the credits rolled.”

Wash sat up to better argue. “I slept this morning!”

“Where?”

“In a quiet corner of the base.”

“In your armor.”

“Of course! There's a war going on!”

Sarge looked over at Doctor Grey. “Little lady, you know any chiropractors? ‘Cause I think we have a patient here in dire need of some spinal straightening.”

“That's hardly the only thing he needs straightened.”

“I admire your ambition, but one thing at a time there.”

Doctor Grey sighed and looked down at Wash with the Head-Tilt of Disappointment. “Agent Washington, when I authorized you for light duty, I _meant_ light duty. I see that you’ve already booked your schedule full of meetings and training sessions, _and_ that you’ve logged additional training hours in your off time.”

“No!” Donut gasped as Sarge joined Doctor Grey in the Head-Tilt of Disappointment.

“There’s a war going on! You can’t seriously expect me to just sit around and _rest!_ ”

“As your doctor, that is _precisely_ what I expect you to do during your scheduled off time.” Doctor Grey's voice was dangerously sweet. “Rest and Relaxation time _is_ for rest and relaxation.”

“But I _was_ trying to relax,” Wash protested, his tone more petulant than he’d intended.

“He was,” Donut acknowledged. “Now that I think about it, I probably pushed too hard for him to loosen up.”

“Dios mio,” Lopez said before promptly exiting the room.

Donut continued on, completely unperturbed by the robot’s rushed exodus. “I’ll have to remember to bring some orange juice next time.”

“In any event, I believe Agent Washington has a rather substantial deficit to sleep off.”

Donut sprang up and dashed over to haul Wash to his feet and guide him to the bottom bunk. “That’s right! You need to sober up!”

“But—”

“It’s alright, Wash. You just relax on the bottom tonight and let me worry about climbing up top.”

Wash closed his eyes as he sat on the bottom bunk with a bit more force than necessary. He took a deep breath in, held it, and then let it _all_ go.

“Goodnight, Donut.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to tuck you in? I know how to pack—”

“ _Goodnight, Donut_.”

“Okay, okay!” Donut backed away from the bed and teasingly commented, “You’re a real grump when you’re drunk, did you know that?”

Wash flopped back onto the mattress in reply. A moment later, the door _whooshed_ open, and Wash heard two sets of footsteps, Doctor Grey’s far heavier than Donut’s, exiting the room before the door whispered shut once more.

Wash opened his eyes to scowl at the only other person in the room, standing in the same spot he’d occupied since Wash came to.

“Yes, Sarge?” Better to deal with the man now than later.

Sarge crossed his arms and huffed. “We both know it wasn’t just the wine or the sleep deprivation that caused you to keel over, otherwise you would have expired from the vapors years ago. So what was it?”

Wash sighed rolled over onto his side, so that he could look at Sarge without getting a crick in his neck. It was completely ridiculous. He _knew_ it was completely ridiculous. He felt completely ridiculous just remembering what it was. And he felt even more ridiculous as he answered, “Donut thinks Locus has a crush on me.”

Sarge snorted, and if Wash thought he’d felt ridiculous before, he felt beyond ridiculous now. “Donut thinks everyone has a crush on everyone else. It doesn’t mean anything unless—” Sarge stilled as his visored gaze met Wash’s morose one. “Oh. He convinced you, didn’t he.”

“Yeah.”

Sarge came over and sat at the foot of the bunk. “Well, son,” he began, patting Wash on the ankle, “in that event, I think it’s high time we got to planning that ski trip to Daddle we talked about in the canyon.”

Wash just nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. I forgot the 15th was the 15th, and I was away from the computer I needed to update from because of Easter Plans. And then I lost internet. But I have prevailed! At last!
> 
> Real life has been kicking my butt for the past six months. Rest in pieces, buffer. We’re back to writing on the fly. x_x
> 
> I’ll probably have to take another break after Chapter 8. You’ve been forewarned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title and summary of this fic finally come into play.

Establishing the sanctity of Movie Night (as it came to be known) had been surprisingly easy once Donut got Doctor Grey involved. Wash didn’t know what she had done to scare away anyone who might even _think_ about involving Wash in anything that might make him run late for his officially-scheduled night off, but to be honest, Wash really didn’t want to know. He already had a good idea of how scary Doctor Grey could be when she wanted to be, and he saw no reason to get an even better idea. Especially considering her influence spanned across multiple bases.

Besides, Movie Nights were the one time in the week they were all together and able to speak undisturbed (and without disturbing anyone else). Wash was looking forward to seeing how everyone had progressed in gathering information and resources for their rescue mission despite the frequent moves between bases.

Wash nodded Wright goodnight before turning into the quarters he shared with the remaining Reds to find everyone else already there, waiting for him.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we, son?” Sarge groused, the popcorn bowl in his lap already showing signs of depletion.

“I’m five minutes early,” Wash deadpanned, taking his customary seat on Sarge’s left and snagging a handful of popcorn while he was at it.

“Really? From where I’m sitting, you’re five minutes later.”

“And from where I’m sitting, he’s looking _fine_ ,” chimed in Donut from where he was doing yoga on the floor, shooting the former Freelancer a salacious wink. “So, Wash, what’s this week’s pick?”

“This one is a personal favorite of mine, and one I think even Sarge will be able to appreciate.”

Sarge grunted. “We’ll see about that.”

“Before we start, though,” Donut sang, standing in front of the projector screen Doctor Grey had cheerfully provided, “I have an important announcement to make!”

The door whisked open just then to reveal a Federal soldier with gold accents on his armor.

“Oh!” he stammered, apparently surprised at the door opening. “Ahem. Hello?”

Donut clapped and grinned. “General Doyle! You’re just in time!”

“What,” said Sarge, his tone flat, as Donut leapt up and lead the Federal General into the room proper.

“Allow me to introduce the newest member of the Musical Lovers Club, General Donald Doyle!”

“What?!” Wash looked at Donut. “When did this happen?”

“This morning, just after breakfast! I found him humming the overture to _Oklahoma!_ , and one thing led to another, you know how it goes, and so I invited him to join!”

“And you didn’t tell me?!” Wash squeaked, feeling more indignant than he reasonably should, but he was the Club Secretary and it was _his job_ to keep track of new members joining up (at least, he was pretty sure it was; it was something Sheila had done at any rate).

“I thought I’d make it a surprise.” Donut grinned and threw his arms wide. “Surprise!”

General Doyle shuffled in place. “I do hope I’m not being a bother by being here...”

“Not at all, General. I was just... surprised,” Wash replied, noting the current time as General Doyle’s _official_ admission into the club and simultaneously taking care of one item for this meeting’s minutes.

“So, Wash, you were saying about tonight’s pick?”

“Right. This one is a personal favorite of mine, and one I believe everyone will be able to appreciate.” Wash inclined his head towards the General. “Some of you may already be familiar with it.”

“Come on, Wash,” Donut huffed, guiding General Doyle to take a seat next to him, at the end of the couch. “There’s no need to leave us hanging on the brink, here. Give us the release we crave from all this anticipation! I know you want to.”

Wash huffed and chose to ignore Donut. “This week’s pick is a classic of English opera, written by a partnership noted for the topsy-turvy nature of their fanciful worlds.”

“Oh!” General Doyle exclaimed, clapping his hands together in excitement. “Gilbert and Sullivan! I do so enjoy their work.”

Wash chuckled. “Then you’ll certainly enjoy tonight’s showing of _The Pirates of Penzance_.”

“The who the what?” grumbled Sarge around a mouthful of popcorn.

“You’ll see,” said Wash, grinning as he turned to The Projector. “Lopez, if you’d please.”

“Uno de estos días, voy a encontrar una manera de subvertir humana agradable a mis subrutinas,” Lopez grumbled as the projector screen lit up with the title of the opera.

As the music swelled and the opera began, Wash sat back with a handful of popcorn, one eye on the General and Sarge, and the other on the screen.

* * *

 

Two hours later, the members of the Musical Lovers Club (honorary, temporary, and fully-fledged) were heavily embroiled in an argument about the merits of the narrative structure, as derived from character motivations and agency, of a particular English opera.

Sarge all-but hurled the long-empty popcorn bowl at General Doyle’s head. “And I’m telling _you_ that the entire plot hinges on the pansy passivity of the patsy lead! If he’d just been more proactive and built himself a time machine, all that leap year nonsense would have been a non-issue!”

“But they didn’t have time travel technology back then!” protested Donut.

“So? Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and if he’d really wanted to find a way, he’d have done found it and founded a temporal empire while he was at it!”

“I don’t think that would be in character, though, Sarge,” said Wash. “Frederic is fundamentally a law-abiding citizen who recognizes the authority of the Queen, and the Queen was the head of the British Empire at the time.”

Sarge simply scoffed. “Then he could have looked into cryogenics! Froze himself and his faithful ladyfriend until the sixty-odd years had passed and he was legally an adult.”

“They didn’t have cryogenics back then, either,” sighed Donut.

“Moreover, I believe one would contractually have to be awake to observe one’s own birthday, in that instance, regardless,” Doyle contributed from where he’d taken shelter behind the couch.

Sarge scoffed. “As if that were the core conundrum of that tepid tale! If I’d been the one writing it, there’d be a whole lot more doing and a lot less dithering.”

“That would be interesting to see,” said Wash, imagining an infusion of lasers, robots, and explosions into the Victorian setting.

“Of course it would be! I’d be the one writing it.”

Donut clapped his hands together, a gigantic grin splitting his face. “Then that decides it! I’ve been trying to come up with a group activity we could all participate in as a club, and adapting _The Pirates of Penzance_ is perfect! How soon can you get the first draft pounded out, Sarge?”

“I can have it to you by the end of tomorrow, son.”

“Excellent! Once you’re finished, the rest of us can have a thorough look over, and maybe figure out some choreography and stage directions. And costumes! I was thinking maybe a steampunk aesthetic would help broaden the appeal?”

“Perhaps a more modern setting would be suitable?” suggested General Doyle, poking his head over the back of the couch. “It would certainly increase the range of viable options to circumvent the leap year issue.”

“And allow for bigger explosions,” Wash commented wryly.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Sarge replied, clapping Wash on the back before jotting down notes on a datapad. “Bigger explosions? Check. Modern technology? Check. Robots and lasers? Checkamundo! I’ll need a full inventory of your incendiaries, General.”

General Doyle laughed nervously. “Now, now, Sarge. Let us not get _too_ far ahead of ourselves. The draft has yet to be written.”

“Already half done.”

“Or revised.”

“Oooh, Sarge! That _is_ a nice twist. Just close enough to be a clear tribute, but definitely modernized!”

“Fully,” General Doyle concluded on a rather weak note as Sarge and Donut hovered over the datapad, oblivious to his input.

Lopez sighed and said, “No estoy ayudando.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Lopez,” Donut said, finally looking up from the datapad, the screen an impressive display of text. “I’m sure we can find _something_ for you to help with.”

“Eso no es lo que quería decir.”

“You’re always welcome, Lopez!”

Wash patted the desolate-looking General on the shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. They can get a bit carried away sometimes.” The former Freelancer smiled conspiratorially before adding on, “It usually results in something interesting.”

“I have little doubt of that, Agent Washington,” Doyle morosely began. “But what concerns me is _how_ interesting things will be. I would prefer to avoid interest of the morbidly fascinating variety, if at all possible.”

“We’ll just have to make sure it’s—”

“Done!” Sarge announced, slapping the data pad into Wash’s lap with a satisfied flourish.

“But you just— Nevermind.” Wash shook his head and looked over the first draft. If you could even call it that.

He looked up from the datapad, an eyebrow raised, and met Sarge’s challenging stare.

“You got a problem with the draft, son?”

“It’s an outline.”

“Of course it is! You need a plan of action before you act! And that’s what an outline is when it comes to writing.”

“It is certainly a... _dynamic_ outline,” said General Doyle from where he was reading the outline over Wash’s shoulder. “Some of these elements I would depend heavily upon proper execution to work, however... Agent Washington, what do you think?”

Wash took another look at the outline, frowning as he considered the nature of some of the changes. Reimagining Frederic as an AI bound by protocol to serve for a set number of creation cycles, which coincided with a leap year, was not _that_ much of a stretch and worked well to justify his strict adherence to the letter of the law. Additionally, the in-universe mischaracterization of the pirate programs as rampant AI when they had simply lost the ability to connect to the mainframe of the interstellar nexus made a lot more sense than them all suddenly being revealed as wayward noblemen. The Major-General as a dumb AI was perhaps the weakest aspect of the outline, but as Doyle had said, the success of the idea would ultimately come down to the execution, particularly when it came to the laser-heavy space battle portions.

“Hrm...” Wash hummed to himself, weighing the feasibility of incorporating spacecraft as props on-stage.

“Well?” Sarge huffed beside Wash, kneeing the Ex-Freelancer in the thigh in his impatience.

“It has potential,” Wash replied, carefully keeping his face as bland as possible.

“So it’s a go?” asked Donut hopefully.

“Unless General Doyle has some objections—”

“No objections at all!” the Federal General hastily interjected, ducking behind Wash to avoid Sarge’s targeted staredown.

“It’s good to go.”

As Donut cheered before launching himself at Doyle to discuss finding a suitable stage and materials to make costumes and props; Lopez left the room, muttering what sounded like profanities under his breath; and Sarge set to work fleshing out the outline into a more proper draft; Wash found himself looking forward to seeing the result, even as he considered the many ways the project could more quickly enable them to collect supplies and intel for their upcoming rescue mission.

At the very least, it would provide General Doyle with a plausible reason to stop moving them from base to base every other day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short. It's rough. But it's been a while since the last update, and I've been dying to get Chapter 9 out because certain events in Chapter 9 are the entire reason I'm writing this fic.
> 
> Sadly, that won't happen until I finish Chapter 10 since I'm trying to write at least one chapter ahead.
> 
> But, at last, the main plot of this fic has reared its head and now it's on a roll.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the ride.


End file.
